


Considerate Omens

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels vs. Demons, Arguing, Awkward Dates, Backstory, Blood, Bodily Fluids, Body Image, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Childbirth, Death Threats, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Doctor Visits, Domestic, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flashbacks, Genderfluid Character, Implied Sexual Content, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, Moving Out, Nightmares, Nudity, Occult, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Prophetic Visions, Sex Talk, Shopping, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Gender or Sex Swap, Visions, War, Wing Grooming, Wings, breast feeding, mentions of genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 161,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Crowley is plagued by dreams of a life he lived long before time had even begun. It's two years after the Apocalypse-That-Didn't, and though he's got a healthy bit of fear of what may come next, choosing to ignore these dreams seems a much better use of his time. In those two years, Aziraphale had moved into his flat, and they may or may not be dating.They don't talk about it, but they do get along just fine with their play-pretend routine, which proves a bit rickety when neither of them age. To avoid suspicion, Aziraphale thinks it wise that he spend some time presenting as a woman. This, a catalyst to the end Crowley had feared before, because it's hard to resist the idea of children when the opportunity presents itself.-[The Continuation of Good Omens]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's time for me to start my second big fic of my life. I've been practicing with Good Omens for a bit now, so I think we're ready to go.
> 
> This is going to essentially explore backstory potential, as well as a potential for what Crowley meant by what comes next at the end of the show. It'll be a fun ride. I would like to point out that tags should be heeded at all times, mostly because this could be sensitive for some people. This will turn into a kidfic relatively soon. I warn about this because it will involve the series of events [become female] --> [have kids] --> [revert to male], which I understand isn't everyone's cup of tea. The becoming female isn't actually necessary for the kid thing, which I'll explain in the story, but it does just happen that the events take place in that order.
> 
> Other than that, I hope you'll stick around for the long run and see what I've got in store!

They came like flashes, bit and pieces of a time Crowley did not remember. Had no real want of anything to remember that particular time, as it were. And rather did forget about the flashes when reality dragged her ugly hand back around. Only, reality wasn’t quite as ugly as she used to be. Not really, not anymore. Not two years since when reality bent to the will of an eleven-year-old, and what that really meant was everything was done again, slightly to the left, and the world was better for it. For now, anyway, and Crowley always had a bit of healthy fear in his heart about it. Especially given their time frame, now. Two years and no word from either side. Two years and nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but these dreams, that was; dreams that he wasn’t about to let ruin anything. Because, after that split in reality and some odd time, he’d really made something of this newfound freedom. That something was currently where he chose to place the blame for his sudden being of awake, rather the dreams where the fault truly lied.

Crowley listened to the shower in a bit of blissful accordance, rolling onto his front to bury his face in the pillows and smile. Beside him, the bed was still warm, the pillows in a sorted disarray that could only mean his partner had only just gotten up, had only just started the shower. These dreams did pick a fine time to wake him, all in sarcasm, as it was always better to wake when the bed was full. But he waited. And listened. The shower had that sort of soft, soothing noise that made his skin prickle in memory. He might like to shower. Might even like to join the current one, but there was a certain comfort to the bed at this odd hour of the morning. Five, the clock read, offensively before the sun had even risen. Somehow, between the warm quilt at his shoulders and the evidence of their night still around him, Crowley couldn’t really bring himself to care.

Instead, he listened for the shower. It was always in perfect condition, never squeaky and never dirty. Sleek, just like the rest of the flat, with dark walls and modern fixtures. Not all of it fit the same theme, of course, but that was of little concern. It had stopped being of concern two years prior, when some of the sharper things had become a bit softer. Not just in the bathroom either, but the lounge and the study. The study had even found a plush armchair shoved inside of it. A second desk. It was all rather lovely and domestic, and he’d come to rather enjoy these quiet, early mornings. As much as he might have hated them even two years and a day before. But, two years and a day before, he wasn’t getting much sleep as it were. This day, he’d been asleep since midnight and was feeling rather fresh for it.

By the time the shower water died away, Crowley had nearly fallen back. But the sudden silence perked his ears, and his eyes opened once more. He looked towards the door and counted the seconds until it opened. Never any steam, because Aziraphale didn’t shower too hot, and he always left it clean when he was done. No miracles, though. Precisely done up so sparkling by hand, the very same way he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded out into the bedroom barefoot. Something about the air had him looking particular fond of himself, humming and smiling as he moved about the room.

Yes. This was exactly what Crowley had decided to do with his newfound freedom. He had decided to do Aziraphale, in a manner of speaking. In a manner of _every_ speaking; Crowley was just admiring him, the way he walked about the room. There were bruises blossoming up around his chest and collarbone, even lower, Crowley suspected, but the towel was righteously placed.

Aziraphale was making some attempt to pick up the room after their night before. There were clothes scattered about and even a blanket. Really, though, all it took was one glance over to Crowley before he melted and dropped whatever article he’d managed to pick up. He slipped over to the bed after that and sat down on the edge, turned just so that he could put his fingers through Crowley’s hair. For a time, Crowley had considered keeping it tucked and short, nicely styled as always. A very persuasive afternoon had him thinking otherwise, and now it was getting long. Long and curly, even, because he hadn’t found any time to straighten it out, as he had back when he wore it long more often. Out of practice.

“Morning,” Crowley muttered. His eyes dipped closed again, and he thoroughly enjoyed the light tugs.

“I didn’t expect you’d be awake this early,” Aziraphale said in such a sing-song voice.

Crowley hummed in response, “didn’t expect to either, but someone woke me up.”

“Oh. Oh, my, I’m ever so sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, angel, it’s alright,” Crowley was halfway between an exasperated sigh and a laugh. What he managed was to pull Aziraphale’s hand from his head and grip it. “What’s on the books for the day?”

“Well, I do need to attend the bookshop, dear. Whatever you get up to is entirely your own decision.”

“I should like to get up to absolutely nothing,” he replied and made a point of shifting under the blankets.

“Yes, though I might trouble you for a ride.”

Crowley snorted. That meant getting up and getting dressed. It meant a lot more than that, something like breakfast, keys, or something to drink. Then driving, which always required a bit of effort. Crowley had made more effort in the last twelve hours than he’d been prepared for, and truly didn’t want to make anymore of any type. Aziraphale had asked, though, and did so with such a look on his face that Crowley did almost feel sorry for him. There was a bit of sympathy, somewhere. Most likely, it was tucked where he’d last seen his trousers.

“What do I get in return?” Crowley asked, a bit of a smirk popping up on his lips.

“Would a kiss do? I’m really a bit, well,” Aziraphale shifted slightly. “Sore.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open about as fast as he made it up to his hands, instead of lying flat on the bed. “Sore? Angel, are you alright? Did I hurt—”

“No! No, heavens, Crowley, no,” Aziraphale laughed. Okay. Crowley frowned a bit and shifted down to his elbows. “It’s nothing more than an ache. It should be gone by supper time. We were awake quite late last night.”

“I know.”

“I should hope so. Now, about that ride?” Aziraphale pushed off the bed to return to his earlier musings. The bedroom was a mess, speaking for perspective. It was usually quite spotless, and only because Crowley liked it spotless. Mornings like this were the one exception, and only because Crowley liked to sleep.

Still, once Aziraphale was awake, there really was no hope in going back to bed, especially not now that he wanted a ride to the bookshop. Crowley did the only thing he could and rolled out of bed, leaving the sheets and blankets behind that he might just stride about the room stark naked. There wasn’t time for scandal or shame, and there never had been. Aziraphale only looked at him once, and it was with a rather kind of fondness in his eyes than anything else. Some time ago, just a month over a year, Aziraphale might have stuttered and covered his face gone red. Now, he was used to it. If anyone could ever really be used to Crowley walking around without clothing; the little side glance was caught. Appreciated. And stored away for later.

For present, Crowley pulled on some fresh underwear. After they’d survived an Apocalypse that didn’t happen, then more importantly, after they’d survived Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale had made a rather pointed attempt at a joke. Which, he was getting better at. This joke had been particularly about Crowley’s wardrobe, which consisted of tight briefs and jeans that had no business fitting properly on anyone who might otherwise be as endowed as he—it was Aziraphale, mind—preferred. Not that Crowley had kept that around all the time, not when his fashion was concerned. Once Aziraphale had learned that secret, his joke had been so fittingly that Crowley would need a new wardrobe if he was too limit occult power.

Crowley’s reply had been along the lines of the fact that Hell had better things to do than account for what genitals, or lack thereof, one demon Crowley had. Still, the joke had been funny, and Aziraphale had been pleased with himself.

As it stood, Crowley’s wardrobe had not changed. Crowley had not changed, save that his hair was down around his shoulders again, and that he didn’t use so much magic anymore. None, if possible. He’d had to learn to park the Bentley properly, which had been the most annoying. Everything else fell into place; it just meant they couldn’t dine at the Ritz quite as often as they like. Crowley had money, they both did, but not quite enough to sustain a life of luxury and bribes for an extended time period.

If things were to continue, as they did, with neither of them moving much in the way towards resolution. Only because it was difficult. Crowley would have to find a job. Aziraphale might have to sell books. That was a far-off future, for now, at least a decade. Along with their plans for fixing the new mess. The only plans Crowley cared about anymore were what clothes to wear and if Aziraphale wanted breakfast.

“Not today, I think,” Aziraphale said, still naked. Truly naked, now, the towel on the ground. He was looking in the full-length mirror, a twisted little look on his mouth.

“Alright, angel. What are you looking at, anyhow?” Crowley had picked a maroon, silken button up to go with his jeans today.

“You’ve made quite a mess.”

“Nothing clothes can’t cover.”

“Yes but, well,” Aziraphale sniffed and made a pointed press over his chest where the bruises were thickest, and his nipples were an angry red.

“Ah,” Crowley understood, but there wasn’t anything to do. “I’ll be gentler next time.”

“Yes, next time.” Aziraphale left it at that and began to dress. “Some cocoa might be nice.”

Crowley gave an off-handed salute before he pulled on one of his less-than-nice sports jackets and slipped out the bedroom. Aziraphale always took longer to get dressed, which was no surprise given what his wardrobe was made of. That, and they shared the same closet, where Crowley had been occupying since he’d rolled out of bed. It gave plenty of time for Crowley to get a start on things, though. He still didn’t eat much, didn’t drink much outside of wine or the occasional liquor. What he did do was cook and make drinks. Aziraphale took out the trash and did general pick up; Crowley cooked and took care of the plants. Before he came to bed every night, Aziraphale took care of the plants a second time like Crowley didn’t know. He did know, and he didn’t care.

Some days, Aziraphale took tea in the morning. A rarer occasion called for coffee. But mostly, he wanted cocoa. Cocoa was something Crowley was more than happy to make and had become quite good at it. Days that started as early as this one called for the magical use of technology, rather, because Crowley was still half asleep and not willing to spill boiling milk on himself. Either way, Aziraphale understood and was appreciative. The humans had come up with rather clever ways of making the morning rush easier. Though, rush was never quite what they did in the morning.

It was nearly six-thirty before Aziraphale popped out of the bedroom, still fashioning on his bow tie as he joined Crowley in the kitchen. The cocoa was steaming on the island in front of the empty chair, and across, Crowley was leaning into his hands and flipping through a magazine. Morning was less a rush and more a slow crawl to the starting line, which was how they both preferred it. Allowance for a slow start was the only reason Crowley really agreed to the five am alarm clock.

“You have any plans today, my dear?” Aziraphale wondered.

Crowley shook his head and grunted, “could stick around the shop, if you like.”

“Oh, and leave you terribly bored all day? I’d have none of that.” He took a sip of his cocoa.

“It’s hardly boring to spend a whole day asleep,” Crowley peeked up at him. Inside the flat, Crowley did not wear his sunglasses. Nothing had changed in his dislike for his own eyes, but there was still something to be said for the safety of home and the safety that Aziraphale provided.

“You shouldn’t spend all day sleeping. That can’t possibly be good for you. I’ve been reading these articles, you see—”

“Angel, I’m not _human_ ,” Crowley reminded. Aziraphale’s nose crinkled up.

“Is it strange that I need reminding of that?” there was a sudden change in his tone, like he was ashamed. Like Crowley had snapped at him.

“No, it’s not,” Crowley reacted quickly. He slid out of his chair to come across the island, to wrap his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kiss his head while he drank from his mug. Two angel wings comprised the mug, and Crowley had a matching black one in the cupboard. They’d bought it online.

“Just because we’re playing human doesn’t mean we’ll ever _be_ human.”

Crowley just shrugged and squeezed him a little harder. “Seems to me there’s nothing wrong with just being us, hm?”

Aziraphale nodded. Whatever that meant. It still made him smile.

“Come on, let me drop you at the shop. I think I’ll stop by that one downtown. You know the shop that has all those plants? I’ve been thinking about getting a new one.”

“My, that would be lovely. Liven up the place a bit, I think.”

“New blood, more like it.” Crowley pressed one more kiss to Aziraphale’s temple before stepping off to let him stand. Once Aziraphale had finished his cocoa, he stood quite still while Crowley fixed his bow tie for him. Afterward, they went straight out. Crowley had the keys, and he held the door open for Aziraphale before locking up.

The bookshop was all just the same as it ever was: A.Z. Fell & Co.. The letters meant all but nothing, which invalidated the comment Aziraphale had made in 1941 about Crowley’s letter for a middle name. He’d never quite figured out what the J should stand for, and eventually, it wasn’t a bother. At least he’d crafted a rather creative name, he thought. A.Z. Fell was just Aziraphale with dots and phonics. It made for a rather nifty business name, though. One that Aziraphale had built up out of the ground, even if it was just a front for his avid love of books.

His collection had been impressive as it had been irrevocably on fire. Crowley had been in that fire. After the fire, and after the Apocalypse-that-Never, the bookshop and her books had all returned. The books weren’t quite right, though, when Aziraphale looked closely. Many of them were rather sparking children’s books, all first edition and all in tip-top shape. Which meant, at the end of the day, that Aziraphale had lost most of his collections to a reality crafted by a child. He had, then, convinced Crowley to drive him to Tadfield so he could have a word with the would-be-Antichrist. Two years later, the collection was larger than ever with children’s books included.

Then, and in a matter only of dropping off, Crowley didn’t have to worry about how legal it was for him to sit halfway perched on the sidewalk. He wasn’t getting out of the car, and it wasn’t turning off. The car no longer ate his cassette tapes and CDs, which was nice.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” Aziraphale chimed.

“Nice day to you,” Crowley didn’t miss a beat. He sat rather still with his hands on the wheel when Aziraphale leaned over to peck him on the cheek. Crowley crinkled his nose and turned for a real and proper goodbye kiss, then waited for Aziraphale to blush, bid goodbye, and disappear off into the shop. Crowley didn’t leave until the sign read ‘open’, and Aziraphale was safe inside.

Then, he pulled off back on the street. Nothing of his driving habits had changed either. Miraculously, he was actually quite good at driving without all the demonic assistance. While he couldn’t drive 100 miles-per-hour through downtown London anymore, not without severely wounding either himself, someone else, or his car, he could still drive. Fast and well. Faster than Aziraphale liked and slower than he did, but it was something of a compromise at least. Aziraphale was more comfortable in the car with him. That, and the ability to listen to someone other than Queen, was certainly a win. Even more so than his newfound driving skills, he found.

Which eventually took him just to the shop he wanted to visit. Maybe new plants weren’t very high on the list of things they needed to be worried about, but it gave Crowley something more to do than positively nothing, which is what he had been doing for two years. That wasn’t entirely true, even if it was what he preferred to dwell on. He had learned a few things. Not all cars had cassette tapes. And, his computer wasn’t as stupid as he thought. As it turned out, he had been the stupid one. Then, finally, he’d learned that sound systems needed speakers and was quite put out when that meant he needed to _buy_ speakers, because his sound system had stopped producing sound not fourteen seconds after that fact. Other than that, it was mostly the computer he spent time with when Aziraphale was at the shop. With financial sheets and investments. Boring.

Plants were not boring. Crowley liked plants. He liked that he could make them luxurious and green just with a bit of water and yelling—and that none of it was magic. It was real. Maybe he didn’t take kind care of his plants, but he did take good care of them. They were his pride, at the moment, something like children. The four that he had were growing large, large enough that he should think about acquiring some trimmers while he was at the plant shop; he was at the plant shop. He’d even parked properly on the side of the road where it was allowed. No tickets for him.

Once inside the shop, it was really all about looking. The trimmers were easy enough to find, and he plucked those from a shelf before turning and nearly walking straight into the short attendant on duty. She was lovely, young, and with glasses perched up on the end of her nose. She had blonde hair in curls that had been tied up in a loose ponytail for the work. Then, her name tag read Victoria—not that Crowley had ever taken to calling humans by their names just because they wore them out on their shirts. He imagined that would be awkward.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you find anything?” Victoria asked.

“I’m alright,” he replied. “Just looking around,” with a pointed glance off towards the section where they had the actual plants, not just things to care for them. She seemed to notice his gaze, which was unfortunate. Her eyes perked up; she wanted to help.

“Oh, looking for a houseplant, then?” she asked.

Crowley grumbled something that wasn’t quite words, more a sound, but nodded.

“Wonderful! We’ve got quite a selection, and even some books to help in first time—”

“Won’t be necessary,” Crowley said, who already had an eye on a particular potted plant. One that he was sure would fit right in among his plants, currently. Victoria left him alone after that with a red face and muttered apologies.

Crowley stepped across the little establishment to a green little plant with lovely red flowers. A laceleaf, it was called, and the red added for spectacular color. It nearly had the look of lilies if one didn’t look close enough, but Crowley knew better. He knew more about plants than he had any real right to, but he needed something to get up to in his time. Plants were a personal hobby. One of the only hobbies he would proclaim to have, and the only things that took up any of his personal time in the flat. Before Aziraphale had moved in. Now there was so much more to devote personal time to. Like dusting and cooking. And Aziraphale.

New plants could really make the scene, though, and this one was bright red and pretty. If it survived, it might even make a lovely centerpiece for a table somewhere. Crowley didn’t really have a dining room. They usually ate at the island, if they ate, and otherwise it was in the bedroom for much more intimate reasons. Like strawberries. Crowley might learn to grow strawberries one day, too. For now, he brushed his fingers over the plant leaves to ensure that he wasn’t about to purchase a plant with no hope. Hope, this particular plant did have, though. He inspected it with a smile on his face—no other plant in the building looked half as good anymore, and he’d only looked at the one. The laceleaf. A beautiful, flowering leafy plant. He was thinking about how lovely this color would really look in the plant room, against the window or the otherwise black of the wall. Not that his flat wasn’t all the rage in modern architecture and planning, but the neutrals were getting old.

He scooped up the plant, the trimmers, and plopped them down on the counter where Victoria silently charged him. He did feel a little bad for his sudden snap, but it was worth it in the end to find himself a lovely new plant. Might it not have caught his eye so early, he might have stayed to look around and find another. Something more to occupy his time, but the one would do for now. He would need to devote all his attention to her if she were to grow as lovely and green as the others had. If she managed to survive, he would revisit the shop for a different one. The idea of flowers was growing on him.

After a careful amount of time spent arranging the laceleaf in the front seat of the Bentley, he took a moment to check his watch. It had taken precisely an hour to do all this, which meant it wasn’t even midday yet, and he had the rest of forever to be back at the bookshop for closing. Maybe under the tempting of a spot of dinner, Aziraphale might close early. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, but Crowley was willing to use every tool in his arsenal to fill his day with useful activities. Until it was time to sleep again.

Crowley had time to slump in his seat and sigh before taking off. Thankfully, he could still run the Bentley on empty—petrol was expensive and it wasn’t something he wanted to worry himself or Aziraphale over. Nothing was worth stressing Aziraphale out, especially not money. Money, money, money—and it did so make the world go round. Crowley was learning that quickly. Aziraphale took care of the laundry, and Crowley took care of the finances. Only because he’d been working finances for a while, with the experience in investments. Not because he enjoyed it, and not because they were going to be happily living in a fancy London flat forever.

Said flat was Crowley’s destination, and he carried his new plant and trimmers up to the door and let himself in. When Aziraphale wasn’t here, it was a cold and empty reminder of the life he’d been trying to leave behind. Life as a demon, specifically. Without Hell breathing down his neck, it had all seemed like the perfect time. He’d stopped tempting, but that had been the only change. His flat was still dreary and empty, though Aziraphale had made it feel more like home. Aziraphale in person only, because even with all of his things neatly scattered about, it still looked like an empty flat for one. A flat that Crowley had never considered important or home, just a place to come back to. At least the plants hadn’t changed; he hoped they never would, even if situations took him elsewhere.

For now, elsewhere was just the plant room. It was clear the plants were expecting something else from the way they had been trembling upon his entrance, but that expectation died when the new plant was introduced. Suddenly, she was the brightest little one in the room, with her red flowers and eagerness to please. Crowley admired it, of course, and set her up near the windowsill before reaching for the plant mister. While he misted, he didn’t speak, nor did he yell. He just stepped about the room and gave each plant the water it needed and inspected the leaves. No spots, but it was clear what leaves he would be needing to sheer off. If they grew much larger, they wouldn’t fit in the room; they were already due enough as it was to be re-potted. He needed to plan a day for that.

“Now,” he said, loudly in comparison to the stunted silence, “this is something I do for your own good. If you grow too large, and it will strain you in the future.” That was when he produced the trimmers.

The plants did tremble at that.

“I know, I know,” Crowley said. He tried to remember the way Aziraphale talked to them when it was late, and he thought Crowley couldn’t hear. “It will be alright, it’s for the better. I’ll make it quick, and nothing too much.”

Which didn’t seem to calm them any, but it was a try. It wasn’t so much his words were wrong, just the plants’ utter distrust for him. Given the way he normally treated them, this was a sudden and strange turnaround. Still, their trembling subsided when it turned out that Crowley wasn’t lying to them. In fact, he had chosen a particularly long stem off the largest plant and snipped it right off. He inspected the damage carefully, then snipped another small one. After an apology, he moved to the second plant and continued in the same manner. He meant them to be small enough for survival, nothing more. When that proved true, no more than ten stems cut from the plants, they believed him.

His attention went to the new plant, then, the laceleaf. He was starting to think that potting needed to happen within the week, because she was very much a large plant already. A few good days of shouting and threatening, she’d surely be ready for a bigger pot. That would give him something to do until Saturday, when they did have a reservation. They’d been waiting weeks on it, nearly two months; they just had to get there first. Crowley had nothing special planned, but the Ritz was special all in its own. They’d dined there after their survival, and Crowley had asked Aziraphale to move in between courses. Until then, he would need to buy the materials. He only kept spare pots around, but they could do with some new soil, as well.

With the list in his head, he stepped off into the study to actually put it to paper. No doubt exited; he knew he would remember the list, but something about making one on a small piece of note paper just felt so domestic, it made his heart sing a bit. He might even stick it on the fridge for Aziraphale to see in the evening and ask him about it before they shut the lights off. He rather liked that feeling. It was the same one he got when they were in bed; Aziraphale would sit propped against the pillows with plenty of reading material, should he choose not to sleep, and Crowley would curl up with his face in Aziraphale’s hip and fall right asleep. Even if Aziraphale didn’t sleep, he still spent the night there, and that. Well.

Truthfully, Crowley didn’t know what it all meant. They’d never talked about it; it’d never been mentioned. Sure, he kissed Aziraphale when he pleased and made love to him when they both pleased, but outside of that. It could mean anything. They were just pretty words at the end of the day. Words they never said, really. Making love could easily be replaced with a vulgar little phrase, but Crowley had learned fast that Aziraphale didn’t _like_ the vulgarity of fucking and preferred to leave that to action only. Everything else seemed to have the same look as love, the same smell, at least. A pleasant routine they could fall into, not too different from how they normally carried themselves, only there was far more kissing. Which sounded like love. Love. Whatever it meant. Surely, Crowley couldn’t feel love—being a demon. This warmth in his chest was a cruel left-over joke that God Herself had given him as a reminder that he could never go Home.

Whatever Home meant, these days.

Crowley eventually snorted and hung his list on the fridge, as he’d pleased, and opened it then to grab something to drink. Standing there in his empty flat, he realized how much he didn’t know. How much he wasn’t aware of how. And more important, how much he didn’t have to do. Sure, he might turn on the telly and waste away for the rest of the day watching reruns of Golden Girls. Maybe he would turn on the computer and read the news, see what the humans were getting up to all on their own. Not entirely on their own, he supposed. After Hell had lost him, surely, they’d thought well to send more demons upstairs long term in order to garner more souls, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.

Satan didn’t need to know he’d spent six-thousand years making heart-eyes at an angel, because that was his secret. Not even the angel needed to know. He could barely be pressed to remember, often times, if he got drunk enough. That made it easier. Less thinking. Less wondering what it might cost if Aziraphale were to return his affections, and oh—Crowley did so loathe thinking. By the time he’d downed a bottle of wine and all the bad thoughts he could muster, his phone was ringing in his back pocket.

He answered it.

“Crowley, where are you?” Aziraphale asked.

Shit.

He didn’t even answer. He sobered himself, instead, on impulse—didn’t think one bit about the power it would take to do so, then stepped out of the flat with his keys. The drive should have taken ten minutes, given the traffic at this time of day. Often, it was faster to walk to the bookshop than to drive, but they both did prefer the quiet time—Crowley made the drive in four minutes, to find Aziraphale standing on the sidewalk tapping his foot, looking ever nervous. Even when he saw the Bentley skid to a stop right in front of him, his demeanor didn’t change. He just hurried into the passenger side and held his case close to his chest. No hello. Not even a glance.

“Angel?”

“Do just drive, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered.

Thoughts just poured out like rum, there. Aziraphale was mad at him. Aziraphale had been afraid that Crowley forgot him—Aziraphale convinced himself that Crowley had forgotten him. Or worse, something horrible had happened, and all expecting Crowley to save him as he’d done in the past, Crowley was rather getting drunk in the kitchen and still forgetting all about him. Time had just disappeared. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been too caught up in his own stupid thoughts, and stupid thoughts again, that three minutes later they were at the flat building. Aziraphale was none for shocked by the speed. He was quiet, still. And he followed into the building quiet. Up the stairs, quiet. Into the flat, quiet. The only noise he made was setting his case on the desk.

“Aziraphale, are you alright?” Crowley finally had the courage to ask.

“I did have an affair I didn’t tell you about. I didn’t think it would be very important, mind, because it was purely business.” Aziraphale was already pacing about the study.

“Wait. Affair? What are you talking about?”

“A meeting, a meeting. Calm yourself, really,” Aziraphale urged. Though, in truth, there could be no such thing as an affair outside of them. Whatever they were. They’d never talked about it. Aziraphale didn’t have so much more a name for it than he did that copy of Agnes Nutter’s book.

Crowley just huffed.

“I met with someone. I’ve met with him a few times, on occasion, mind. He brings me books, we haggle. Mostly, I get what I want, and he leaves rather displeased. This time, well, not so much.”

“He mess with you, then?” Crowley had plopped himself down at the desk, feet propped up on the desk. He watched Aziraphale pace in front of the desk, before the windows.

“No, not precisely. It was just, well,” Aziraphale stopped in front of the desk. “Crowley, I’m a bit afraid, I suppose.”

At that, Crowley pulled down his legs and leaned forward onto the desk. “Angel, if there’s anything—”

“No, no. I don’t, no. That’s not what I mean, it’s just. Well,” Aziraphale folded his hands, “he made a comment, of sorts.”

“A comment.”

“Yes, and before you make word of me being all worked up over a comment, I assure you—”

“I made no mention, angel,” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What’s the comment, then?”

“He said I hadn’t aged a bit. Not once. Not in the fifteen years since I’d last seen him—oh, and Crowley,” Aziraphale said this part like they were gossiping over wine at a tavern, “he’s gone positively gray and wrinkled, already. Rather quite sad, I’d say.”

Crowley snorted a laugh.

“The problem is, though, as I’m sure you can gather. We don’t—well, we don’t _age_ , Crowley.”

“No, no we don’t.”

“The only thing about you that’s changed since I met you on that wall is your hair,” Aziraphale gestured. “Even then, you’ve grown it out again.”

“You’ve a finer taste in clothes, I’ve noticed. Those rags didn’t suit you,” Crowley leaned back into the throne. Now that he’d seen there was no real threat, he relaxed.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale made a pointed look at Crowley, “I do rather prefer the new wardrobe on you, too.”

Crowley gave a bit of a smirk. Idle flirting had always been their game, whatever it meant. It just seemed a natural thing to do, especially now when they were comfortable with it. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t have to mean that Crowley had been madly in love with him since the day they met. It certainly didn’t have to mean that Aziraphale returned those feelings. One, because Crowley was a demon. Two, because Crowley was a demon. Still, he could live with the idleness of their togetherness. It was comfortable and fine. Familiar, even.

“I’m just worried, I think,” Aziraphale said after a time. “If he’s noticed, others are bound to. I can’t brush it off with good hygiene forever, you know. Someone is bound to notice something is wrong.”

“Well enough, I suppose. Thought we could just keep going for the old descendant trick.”

“Yes, but that usually requires the going away bit. Unless you plan on paying for movers, we’re a little stuck here. Not so many options now that we aren’t to be using magic.”

And what of the point was that, really. Crowley had to wonder. He’d already used magic once that day. There had been no smiting. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to pop over to Germany, maybe, for a time and return later as different people, but there still had to be some magic involved. Moving was a hassle in the human manner, and it would take a lot of time. More time than they probably had, if Aziraphale’s fear was as important as he was making it seem. It wasn’t so much an issue of being found out, as no one would believe them. It was suspicion, though, which wasn’t a good thing. Not because it meant humans were suspicious, but because it had the potential to draw other forces near.

“What did you have in mind, then?” Crowley was beginning to fear the answer.

“Well, I thought a more personal change might be in order. I do rather like it here, after all. Soho, I mean. It’s been home for quite some time.”

“Yes, indeed it has.” He might need a glass of wine for this, he thought.

“I’d rather not leave, is what I’m saying.”

“Noted. Gathered. Understood.”

Aziraphale straightened up his waistcoat. He stepped around the desk to be closer, where he leaned back into it and nearly thought to reach out for Crowley. Rather, he kept his hands to himself and found another spot in the room to stare at. He did this when he was nervous; eye contact became difficult, as did words and proper sentences in proper fashion. He knew how obvious he was when he got this way, but it was hard to help himself. Saying things so plainly when he was certain of the outcome was hard, if only because he didn’t want those outcomes to take place. Not between the two of them. Not with Crowley. They’d done their fair share of arguing, and once it had nearly meant the last time they’d seen each other.

“If I only changed, you understand,” Aziraphale started. Crowley’s eyebrow immediately raised, because a change was attempting to sound like a bit of magic. Just what they shouldn’t partake in, lest they bring too many wandering eyes.

“It wouldn’t be a big change, you see,” to mitigate the anger behind Crowley’s eyes, a nervous laugh. “Just enough to keep suspicion off, and rightfully so, I wouldn’t need the same trick again for quite some time.” Aziraphale laughed again. “Until people began to notice, and then, yes. Done.”

“Done,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale was having a hardy time keeping his smile up and his hands spread. He could already see what was about to happen; he and Crowley were going to argue. There was nothing to be done about it, but it had to be done. So, he breathed deeply and buried his nails into the fabric of his slacks. Braced himself. Breathed again and let his smile twitch away.

“I was thinking I might, well. Strictly speaking, it is sticking with the idea of a family member, just different, I suppose. Since we wouldn’t have to leave and return, it can’t possibly be a child, but I could be a _sibling_ , and well,” Aziraphale was doing more talking with his hands than with his mouth. Crowley’s arms were crossed, and he wasn’t impressed.

“A name change, then?” Crowley grimaced. That wasn’t ever going to work.

“No! No, something more concrete. I did say it would be a personal change, and well, it wouldn’t be something so strange that we’ve never partially done it before. Well, I haven’t. Not fully, at least.”

“Angel.”

“I’m trying! I don’t know how to say this. I’d rather we not fight over it—”

“So, it’s something we’re going to fight over, is it?” Crowley had already figured it out; Aziraphale knew from the way that he was standing up from the throne and creating distance.

“I would hope not…” Aziraphale trailed off and bit into his lip. “It would involve magic.”

“And we’ve already agreed not to _use_ magic. So, what, we’re just going to bust out as much as possible all at once, so Heaven and Hell knows we’re up to something?”

“No! No, that was not the plan. As I stated, it would be a one-time use, and I wouldn’t have to do it again for many, many years. It would be no different than pushing away a ticket.”

“I haven’t _gotten_ any tickets,” Crowley hissed at him.

“Of course, you haven’t, I would know,” Aziraphale was frowning now too. “You don’t even know what my plan is yet—you might even like it, if you would take a second to listen.”

“Oh, I am listening, angel. I’m hearing magic. You’re the one who said we should stop using it!”

“Yes, but this is an important matter! Our livelihood is quite at stake here, Crowley.”

Crowley was about to ask exactly _what_ livelihood Aziraphale was referring to, but he caught himself on his teeth and sneered instead. That would have been going too far. Just because he was angry didn’t mean he was going to undermine the life they’d been building. It was mundane and full of routines, but he enjoyed it just because of that. In the same way that he enjoyed having Aziraphale around, he enjoyed the life they’d created together in whatever context they’d created it. Still, the silence had said it all for him, and Aziraphale took a step back.

“What’s the plan, then?” Crowley sighed, defeated.

“I could pose as my own sister,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, though we may have to take time to get some new clothes for me. New parts to accommodate and all that,” he shifted uncomfortably.

Crowley was just staring at him.

“A woman?” Aziraphale tried again. He hadn’t been expecting silence. “Please, it’s not as if you haven’t—”

“I was one, for the job, I mean,” Crowley corrected, "but it never really felt right. I had no intentions of making the change permanent."

“It wouldn’t be permanent, just cosmetic. And it’s not as though it really matters what I look like. I’m still me—and you’ve quite had your fill of my—”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley raised his hand to cut Aziraphale short. “I just wasn’t expecting this, is all. You’ve been, well, you, for as long as I can remember. It’ll be different.”

“But I will still be _me_ , just less suspicious.”

Crowley folded his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back. He looked at Aziraphale, who was still firmly staring at the floor, then over to the windows. Then back to Aziraphale, who was fidgeting. Back to the windows. It wasn’t as though the idea was off-putting, though he realized his response had entirely said that. They were genderless as it was, everything else was an effort or a preference. Crowley clearly didn’t much care what he presented as, because it didn’t matter. Aziraphale didn’t see to either, with how simply he’d come to this conclusion. It was just different. Crowley had started not to like different some time ago, because things were comfortable the way they were now.

“I’d understand if you wouldn’t like it,” Aziraphale continued, nervous. “I’d even understand if you wanted to end our little arrangement—”

“No, no that’s not. Shit,” Crowley sighed. “I’ve made a mess of things once again. I’m quite good at that, me. Making a mess of things.”

Aziraphale stiffened.

“I think I’d rather spend the night to myself, if that’s alright,” Crowley muttered. “I need to think about this. And—” he pointed at Aziraphale, “this is not about the lady thing. If you think that would help, fine, I don’t care. Be a lady, be anything in between. Turn into some bedtime monster, for all I care, it’s just the _magic_ that I care about.”

Aziraphale nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. His arms were wrapped rather protectively around himself, now, and his eyes were squinted like he might cry. But, if space was what Crowley needed, space was what Crowley would get. It was better than arguing, and hopefully, the constricted timeline would mean he wouldn’t disappear. That they would talk in the morning over breakfast, one that Crowley had prepared quite wonderfully, and all would fall back into place. He hoped, anyway, because dinner wasn’t on the menu this evening.

Only after the door to the bedroom clicked shut, and it did click, did Aziraphale drop his arms and release a breath. He’d spend the night in the lounge and poke through a couple of books, assuming he’d be able to concentrate. If he couldn’t, he would work more on this plan of his and really focus on what future that would cause. What he’d built with Crowley was too precious to let go, even if it didn’t have a name, and even if it could fall apart at the slightest second. For all he knew, this was just a momentary diversion from some greater cause, and it would end as suddenly as it had begun. He prayed for that not to happen, but he would keep his prayers to himself. Crowley would hear none of them, and God certainly wouldn’t, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 I've already got ch2 started, so shouldn't be too long. 𓆏  
>   
> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
>   
> I'm also completely open to suggestions on how to handle the events in this story as they pertain to the actual child thing. This isn't my forte, and while I've consulted people who know more about it than I do, clearly that doesn't mean things will be perfect.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaaaaay Chapter 2. I meant to actually finish this all yesterday, but we got to talking in the server about Ineffable Babies, and I got distracted. Can't wait to introduce these little shits to the real world, it'll be fun. 
> 
> 𓆏 Do enjoy! Comments/kudos are appreciated! 𓆏

As they all were, the morning was slow and quiet, but it did smell significantly more like pancakes than most mornings did. The door to the lounge was open, and at some point, Aziraphale had apparently fallen asleep without giving much thought to anything. He’d read a few pages of his book, though it had found itself on the floor somewhere in the night. Two things were different, other than that; Aziraphale had the quilt from the bed draped over his shoulders, and the door was open. Though he’d already noticed that, he had to say it again in his head to really believe it—he had closed it when he entered last night, before dreadfully falling asleep on the couch. It was his couch, brought in from the bookshop when he’d officially moved in, but that didn’t mean it was particularly comfortable. And—the _door_ was open. Which might account for the quilt, and the fact that he was awake promptly on time to get ready to go to the shop.

Maybe it meant that Crowley wasn’t mad at him. Or, if he was, he would still be willing to listen and discuss the issue at hand. The understanding was appreciated, and even enough that Aziraphale smiled to himself as he picked up the fallen book. It was one of his Oscar Wilde books, first edition and signed, that he’d read so many times he’d been reprimanded for repairing it with a miracle. Once the bookmark was properly placed and the book was back on the table, Aziraphale stood and picked the quilt up with him. Across the hall, the bedroom door was also open. Crowley had apparently woken up earlier than he ever would do on his own for this glorious pancake smell; he’d even made the bed and left the room clean.

The quilt was placed back on the end of the bed where it belonged, and Aziraphale changed his outfit for the day. It looked nearly identical; the jacket was the same, but everything else was just a matter of having more than one of each article of clothing. Then, the bow tie was a different color too. Red, this time, because Crowley did appreciate the color red. To keep up with him, too, Aziraphale made sure to clear the mess he’d made into the hamper for laundry later. As long as he kept calm, things would feel as normal as they were; besides, he hadn’t even asked for breakfast. The smell said two things, one significantly more important. One, that Crowley was making breakfast. Two, and significantly more important, Crowley was making breakfast of his own accord. Hopefully, it would be a good conduit for their talk and eventual apology. In record timing, too. It had taken less than twelve hours. Or, it would; Aziraphale first had to confirm that he was correct in his assumptions and not just pretending that he meant more to Crowley than he really did.

They’d never talked about it.

Once everything was back in place, Aziraphale padded the short walk to the kitchen and peeked inside. Crowley was standing with a spatula over the stove, flipping a pancake. There was already a plate of them, and from the look, they were steaming hot and chocolate. Plates were already set out, one of them with just a couple slices of bacon, while the other was quite more stacked with sausage and egg on top of the bacon. The pancakes were set up between them, for server’s choice of amount, and all of it beautifully arranged on the island. Crowley looked tired, on top of it, but he still had a bit of a jaunt in his step when he placed the last of the pancakes on the stake. And then, only then, did he notice Aziraphale too afraid to step inside.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley said. He set the pan and the spatula aside. He was already dressed for the day, his button up shirt only half done and paired nicely in color with the loose tie around his neck. That was just his style. Fashionably distressed.

“Good morning.” Aziraphale finally found strength enough to step inside the kitchen. He sat down at the island and watched with a bit of a wide-eyed look as Crowley set down his mug, full to the brim with hot cocoa.

“Crowley, you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Crowley sniffed. “I was nothing short of an arse last night, so I thought I’d try and make up for it. With breakfast. I made chocolate, just like you like.”

“And you’re even going to eat this morning?” asked as Crowley shuffled into his own seat. He had his own mug, too, filled with coffee instead. But he nodded.

“Not much, but I figure it’s less strange to talk over breakfast if we’re both eating.”

Aziraphale didn’t disagree with that sentiment and served himself a couple of the pancakes. Then a third, just for good measure; Crowley had set out a boat of syrup, which Aziraphale was generous with as he poured it over his plate. Crowley just watched as he did, waiting until he was finished before serving himself a single pancake, then just a dollop of syrup over it. There was silence while they both dug into the breakfast; Crowley sipped on his coffee. It was all just a matter of timing and thinking, wondering just what words were best to say and in what order. Crowley had done some thinking about it over the evening, while he laid in the middle of his wide-open bed, alone. Now he just had to sort those thoughts into something for Aziraphale and hope it was enough.

“This is very good, dear,” Aziraphale was smiling. “You get better every time.”

“Nothing like you can make, I’m sure,” another sip of the coffee, a bite of bacon.

“Yes, well. I like when you cook.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile. It meant something when he cooked, because he didn’t care much to eat. So, when he cooked, it was specifically for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a bit warm at the thought. That, and the pancakes were warm. Somehow, it was all still warm.

“I’ve been thinking, too, about last night. Our little spat.” Crowley was leaning into his hand now and munching on the pancake out of the corner of his lips. “I may have overreacted.”

“I did spring something rather strange on, you I can’t blame you for your reactions.”

“No, but I can. Something I need to set straight, too, is that it really wasn’t the change that bothered me. It would be a bit strange for a bit, you as a woman, but I’d get used to it. I got used to everything else, after a time.”

“Yes, time is rather amazing.” Aziraphale smiled when he spoke, because he meant no ill will by it. He stuffed his cheeks with scrambled eggs and nearly moaned over them. They had cheese.

“Rather speaking,” Crowley continued, “I think you’d make quite a sight. It’s just the method I’m concerned with. I’m afraid, I suppose.”

“Afraid?” Aziraphale set down his fork.

“Of the eyes we might find on us. It’s not that we’ve made a particular effort to move, so we probably aren’t hard to find anyway, but that doesn’t mean we need any unnecessary suspicion. If Heaven and Hell were to figure out that we _lied_ —”

“Yes, probably best not to mention that aloud,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley agreed.

“I understand your concern, I do. In truth, I’ve been thinking of this for several weeks now. My friend’s comment merely had me bring it to your attention sooner.”

Crowley nodded. “So, you’ve truly given this some thought?”

“I have. I think it would be the best course of action; I’m not quite ready to leave Soho behind, as I said.”

“Right, right. I wouldn’t ask you to. I don’t need to be changing to, do I?” Crowley cracked the first grin of the morning.

“No, no. You don’t have a job, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled next. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t raise suspicion eventually, but the truth was he didn’t see enough of the same people frequently enough to do it as fast as Aziraphale could.

“Well, I suppose if something were to happen, I’d just have to protect you. I don’t have a flaming sword or anything, mind,” Crowley took his last bite of bacon, “but I’ve got an imagination. That’s got to count for something.”

“Of course,” and Aziraphale meant it. Crowley meant it too, that he would protect Aziraphale. Sure, it might have been said for appearance and valor, but it was a mutual feeling. They were in this together, as they’d always been, and so it would continue.

Crowley even reached across the island to grip Aziraphale’s hand, then released it just as fast in fear that it was entirely inappropriate. There was a warmth that spread up Aziraphale’s arm, however, and he smiled. They really should have a conversation, but the timing wasn’t right. Not at the moment. Instead, Aziraphale turned back to his plate and ate while Crowley began the clean-up. He’d finished his coffee first, of course, and then set to rinsing the dishes before setting them in the dishwasher. When Aziraphale finished, he gathered up those dishes as well.

“Should I keep it a surprise?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley stopped short, elbow deep in soapy water, and looked back. “What exactly?”

“What I’ll look like in this new form. Maybe if I keep it a surprise, we might make something of it.”

Crowley mulled it over as he set the final plate in the dishwasher. A surprise would be interesting, though he wasn’t sure how different Aziraphale would be able to look. He did have a particular sense of fashion, and he loved nearly everything else about him. There had been a time when he was less than happy with his appearance, but that had been such a long time ago. It hadn’t lasted very long, thankfully. Crowley couldn’t imagine what Aziraphale would actually change, save extra parts to accommodate, as he’d said. The wardrobe shopping would be fun.

“Only if you’ll let me buy you something nice,” Crowley said with a smirk that meant he had something entirely opposite to nice in mind.

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed without hesitation. “Keep in mind the colors, though, dear. I don’t like anything overly gaudy.”

“You do,” Crowley mocked. He was thinking something red and covered in lace, though he would need to at least _see_ the new form to gauge a size.

Crowley finished the dishwasher loading and got it started, and by the time he had, Aziraphale had his case and his shoes, ready to leave. Crowley would drop him by the shop, as they did, and go about his day to find something useful to do. He would need to return to care for the plants, especially with the laceleaf being so new. She would need all the proper attention he could afford her, though he was beginning to think his attentions were drifting elsewhere.

Elsewhere in particular being the curve of Aziraphale’s backside as they walked out of the flat. There were several things Crowley hoped wouldn’t change whenever Aziraphale decided it was time, that particular swell being one of them. Aziraphale had always been a little plump, but that was just alright. Ideal, even, because it gave Crowley so much to grab onto and massage when they were in each other’s arms, in _bed._ He loved and loved every curve and bump Aziraphale had. Without all the tight clothes, even his chest had a nice weight to it. He could only imagine now a little more, a little wider, and all the same except maybe an hourglass shape instead. Whatever Aziraphale decided, he’d like, but he was secretly praying that Aziraphale could hear his thoughts. No magic would really be worth losing such a wonderful asset, and Crowley couldn’t help but present a nice swat as they reached the Bentley.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, his cheeks a sudden red. “ _We_ _’re outside_ , mind you.”

Crowley just smiled. The message had been received.

Once he’d returned to the flat, Aziraphale safely inside his shop a little later than it should have opened, Crowley got to work. The poor little laceleaf didn’t know how things were done around here; she hadn’t even so much perked when Crowley entered the room, where the rest of the plants seemed to tremble at the site of him. What a poor thing she was to not understand the situation she was in, because Crowley was going to lay down some ground rules. After they were watered, of course, and he grabbed up the mister to do just that. He needed to refill it at some point, but he could do that when he planned to move pots. Which might be something for the following day. As good a thing as any for a Friday afternoon it was, to pot plants. Then, Saturday would be their evening reservation the Ritz. At some point between then, Aziraphale would look a woman.

Crowley mused at the strangeness of it all, but he wasn’t opposed to any of it. And he was certainly not going to spend too much time dwelling on it, the surprise. He spritzed his water and wore a bit of a grin that kept the plants trembling as he worked. Because that grin said nothing good, even if all he was thinking about were the possibilities Aziraphale would present to him soon enough. It was one thing to put an effort in for female genitalia, and it was entirely a different thing to look the part, head to toe. He’d gone straight through the denial phase to acceptance, because even if this was to be the thing that set Heaven on their tails, at least he’d get to see it happen. Aziraphale made quite a pretty male presenting angel, so the possibilities as a female were certainly all the same and ever endless.

Devious all the same were his thoughts, about the plants or about Aziraphale, and it came time to finally set aside the plant mister. His intent on the laceleaf gave the other plants their reprieve for the day; he regarded her with a stern and discerning eye. Her leaves were green and her flowers red, but for how long? And how would they grow bigger if she didn’t know that was what was expected? It was only proper that he ensure she know the expectations she was under, only fair. She’d need to know them to meet them, after all, and she did seem to feel something was wrong when Crowley gave her a particularly devilish smirk.

“Don’t think that just because you’re new, you’ll be getting any special treatment,” he told the laceleaf.

His speech started immediately after in a raised an angry voice. She was to grow as big and if not bigger than all the other plants in the room. She was to stay green and bright. Any spot or hole would result in immediate removal from the flat, from life, and from thought. He’d destroyed countless plants before her, and he would not stop now. She had even higher expectations, being the only flowering plant in the room. Not only was it imperative she be the greenest, but the reddest on top of it. Just as luxurious as the plants before her, and even more if she could dare stand it. He would make a better plant of her yet. He _would_ make a better plant of her. Only the largest leaves, the prettiest flowers. If she did well enough, she might find herself the sole honor of being displayed elsewhere in the house.

But she would need to prove herself, first, and the proving had begun.

By the time Crowley was finished and the clock had struck two, the laceleaf was shaking greater than any of the plants ever had. She had already started to grow on top of it. Crowley was pleased enough for the moment, smiling and feeling better than he had in days, and was already thinking about where he might display his new plant. It was high praise to count on her this early in the game, and he hoped she’d lived up to it. She might make a lovely plant for the study, on the edge of his rather wide and rather empty desk. Maybe when Aziraphale got home, he’d show off the new plant and ask his opinion. If Aziraphale had seen it, there hadn’t rather been time to discuss it through the shouting. Now, he might even be able to show her off, the laceleaf.

That left his final trip of the day, which he should have just enough time to work with. His list was still stuck on the fridge, and unfortunately, he’d ruined any type of domestic talking it might have sparked, but there was always time for more notes and more lists. If he could time it just right, he’d be able to stop by the plant shop and get what he needed, spend just enough time looking at their pathetic plants in hopes one might spark his interest as well as the laceleaf had, and then stop by the bookshop just in time for it to close. He wouldn’t leave Aziraphale waiting around for him, this time.

Things felt positive, for once, instead of painfully dull as they did and rather filled with thoughts he didn’t need to think. The only thought he could muster now about Aziraphale was when he planned to make the change. It might be something a bit special to pull up to the bookshop and see a lovely bit of difference in him. All of it was up to him and, regardless of timing, less important than it was right now. He had the shop to attend, the things to buy. It was mostly potting soil and tools, since the last time he’d had to change pots was long enough ago that he’d misplaced everything. The pots were hard enough to lose, given their size, so he was fine on that route. Good luck provided; he could keep focused on the task instead of the possibilities.

Thankfully, it was a different employee minding the shop. A young man by the apparent name of William greeted Crowley when he stepped through the door and did so just as obnoxiously try and help him with his purchase. He managed to hold the snap back while still implying that he knew exactly what he needed to do and what he was there to find. William left him alone after that, better occupied with another customer who’d walked in moments after. Crowley overheard their quick conversation, where the customer asked to be directed to the decorative pots. They were at the back of the store, where Crowley currently was shifting through bags that probably needed to be cleaned.

Thankfully, he’d had half a mind to bring a towel for the Bentley.

Something felt off for a moment thereafter, and he hoped he was imagining it. There was a certain sort of feeling Crowley couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t so much ominous, nor was it overly bright. Just a sort of sense that something was slightly all well and off. That when he would turn the corner of a shelf, and expect kindly to see something, there would be nothing but emptiness. And, that there was, while he had a bag of potting soil and a strange twist in his lips. A moment ago, there had been another customer in the shop—William had greeted him, and Crowley had heard the whole thing. Now it seemed he was the only one, though the bell on the door had not rung, and William was standing at the counter like he’d never left.

Crowley rang up what he needed and left the shop quite like he’d never entered it, having completely forgotten that he wanted to spend an extra moment browsing the plants again. There would be another day and another time to do such, and he’d half a mind to bring Aziraphale along for the ride. An extra bit of eyes might prove something that he wasn’t ready to prove to himself—that whatever had just happened, _had_ indeed happened, and that this had nothing to do with his early rise to make pancakes. Pancakes that he was starting to wish he hadn’t eaten; his stomach was beginning to clench up, as if vomiting really was something he’d allow himself to do.

Vomit would be better than the dread though, like something was just around the corner of the shop. Even as he set up the towel in the backseat of the Bentley to keep the seats clean of soil, something felt off. He made hasty work of the covering and the situating, the soil and his bags. If only because he could get out of here faster, because spending the rest of his day cooped up in the comfort of Aziraphale’s bookshop felt a much better alternative to this. Dread. Eyes. He could count them, once upon a time. Back when angels had so many eyes—

Crowley stopped himself there and turned on the radio, high as he could stand, and made sure his sunglasses were perched tight against his skull. He needed them there. No light and no remembering; no dread either. Just the songs on the radio and some forced little happy thoughts; he’d go to the bookshop. Maybe he might even read for a change. That would be enough to shock Aziraphale, that was certain. Though, the thoughts were forced and forced alone. By the time he arrived at the bookshop and had properly parked, his knuckles were white. His hands nearly shook, but he was careful not to slam the door too hard when he stepped out of the car. He left the bags, mourned that he hadn’t thought to stop and pick up a quick snack for at least Aziraphale, but moved out towards the bookshop anyway.

When he pushed through the door, the shop had a few spare people browsing books they’d never get to own. But the door had opened, and Aziraphale had heard it. He stepped around a bookshop, a book in his hands and glasses on his nose, to greet what he assumed was a new customer. It was just Crowley; the greeting died on his tongue and was rather replaced with a few sounds that hadn’t strung together properly to form words. That was the shock. The shop wasn’t to close for a few hours still, and Crowley was intimately aware of the shop’s schedule. He might have spun off into thinking he’d certainly forgotten some sort of occasion where he was to close up early, save for the strange twisted up look on Crowley’s face.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Aziraphale settled on.

“Wasn’t expecting to stop by,” Crowley was looking around like he was expecting to see something. When he saw nothing, he looked to Aziraphale. “Just had a weird feeling is all.”

Aziraphale had a silly, fond little smile on his face. He’d heard what Crowley meant but hadn’t said: that he had come to find safety at the shop, which Aziraphale could appreciate.

“Well, go and make yourself at home in the back,” Aziraphale offered. “I know we’ve taken the couch to your—our flat by now, but the chair should be alright.”

“Yes, should be.” Crowley sniffed. His eyes seemed unfocused, his attention somewhere not the present. He slipped off to the side room, as suggested, and collapsed down into the armchair with his leg up over the arm.

From this part of the room, he could see out into the circle of bookshelves. There was still a carpet in the middle, an ugly little circle thing that Crowley had wanted to trash the moment he’d seen it. The only difference was there was nothing underneath it, not anymore. An angel with no use for Heaven had no use for a gateway, so the gateway was gone. Whether Aziraphale had cleaned it off or God Herself had swiped it from him didn’t matter; Crowley was glad it was gone. It always left a funny feeling in the shop.

Now, the shop just felt like books. Books and shrewd, because Aziraphale was currently listing off any excuse he could think of for why a plump little man with glasses and white hair should not buy a historical account of Rome’s founding. Crowley couldn’t help himself but smile after the scene. A library would have done better for not losing the books forever, but Aziraphale had scoffed at and refused the suggestion. A shop meant he would have limited involvement with people and would be able to keep the books. A library meant loaning, and loaning meant there would be a certain amount of time he had no idea what sort of horrible torture his prized collection was going through. Thankfully, this old man didn’t seem interested enough to argue with Aziraphale, so he placed the book on the counter by the register and left out through the front.

Then remained but one customer, a regular. Crowley recognized her, because she was one of the only humans Aziraphale let spend this much time in his bookshop. All she did was sit in the corner and read, always a different book; she never wanted to buy. Crowley didn’t know her name, but she did have a certain look about her. Her skin was dark, her hair was dark, and she had thin glasses pushed all the way up the bridge of her nose. Everything about her dress made him think she was an American, but she was here far too often to be a tourist. Either way, she wasn’t much of a hassle, so Aziraphale dipped away from the main area to come and stand by the armchair.

“Are you alright, Crowley?” he whispered.

Crowley shrugged.

“You look spooked.”

“I should I hope so; I’ve experienced something rather spooky.”

“I thought you liked spooky,” almost patronizing, but not quite. Aziraphale did smile.

Crowley scoffed, “not when the spooky involves my sense of reality, no.”

That peaked Aziraphale’s interest, but the front door opened again. Crowley waved him off with a promise that they would talk about it over dinner. He was planning part two of his make-up-apology. Breakfast had been part one, dinner would be part two. He had a roast he’d been meaning to make anyway, before it went off, so this was fine enough. His fridge didn’t so much have any demonic power anymore, either, so the food did eventually go bad. Outside of the roast, he wasn’t sure what he’d make, but he’d get there. Aziraphale probably had work to attend to, anyway.

There was always work to attend to.

Crowley sighed and shifted in the armchair. Both of his legs were thrown over the side, his arms wrapped about his waist, and he’d laid his head on the back of the chair. He liked being able to look into the shop, or at least appear like he could. There had been several times where he’d actively had to help in scaring off customers who were particularly angry when Aziraphale wouldn’t sell to them; to be said, he knew his appearance tended to spark a reaction. Even where his plan was to let his eyes close and sleep come, he would _appear_ a certain way. And. If Aziraphale needed anything, he’d be available. Asleep, but available.

Asleep he stayed, the entire time, and when Aziraphale was finally shaking his shoulders, the shop was already closed up. On top of that, it was already getting dark. They were creeping ever slowly into Fall, and the days proved it. Crowley eventually shifted into a more comfortable position and pushed his glasses on top of his head to rub at his eyes. Even the girl, who was beginning to feel like a permanent fixture in the shop, had left. The space she’d occupied looked no different and even dusty, if Crowley were to be honest. Like she hadn’t been there for as long as he thought.

“Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale asked, his voice still hushed like Crowley was sleeping.

“Mm,” Crowley muttered. He was staring forward at the empty chair. Aziraphale was packing his case.

“So, did you want to talk about what spooked you earlier? I know you said dinner, but we can talk about it now. I’ve got a few things to collect before we go home.”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley said in sleep-slurred speech.

“Oh, obviously it’s something, my dear,” Aziraphale retorted. “You don’t tend to look so bothered by nothing.”

“Alright, so it’s not nothing. It was something. But—well,” Crowley shifted, “not sure what it was.”

Crowley told him about the flower shop and whatever it was that had or hadn’t happened. He omitted the part about how similar the experience had been to that girl in the corner with her glasses and dark hair, because that would feel too close to home; he wasn’t ready to ruin the safety of the bookshop for himself. Instead, he just chose to dwell on how sure he’d been that another customer had entered the store, talked to the attendant, and even walked back to browse the shelf just to the side of where he’d been. When he turned that shelf, nothing. Nobody. Not even the attendant seemed out of place. At the end of the story, Aziraphale was looking none too pleased with the series of events and had rather taken to gripping his case to his chest with white knuckles than leaving it to stay at his side.

“We should probably go home,” was all Aziraphale said.

Crowley couldn’t have agreed more.

They listened to Bach on the way home, something to calm the mind. Not that it really worked, but when they’d arrived at the flat, there were other things to occupy them. Aziraphale took the bag while Crowley had the potting soil, and on the way up to the door, the shopping spree did spark a bit of a conversation. Aziraphale still hadn’t seen the new plant, the laceleaf, and didn’t know that Crowley was planning to move them all into different pots. He even offered to help, but of course he’d be at the bookshop, so there wasn’t much int he way he could do without closing. The thought was all appreciated, regardless, and when they got into the flat, Crowley took him through the plant room to store what he’d bought and show off his new plant.

Aziraphale admired the little beauty and dragged his fingers across her leaves. He even deigned to compliment her, right there, where Crowley was watching with his eyebrows raised and teeth a little gritted together. Eventually, that ordeal ended, and Aziraphale walked back out to the study so he could spread his stuff out over Crowley’s desk, specifically, and not his own. Crowley didn’t mind. He bent down to whisper a horrid threat in the laceleaf’s air before stashing away the potting soil and poking his head out into the study.

“I’ll get dinner started.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale smiled over at him.

“I was thinking about making the roast, so it’ll be a bit. Have any requests?”

Aziraphale made himself comfortable, as comfortable as he could, in the throne. “Perhaps some sort of potato dish? I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

That was enough. Crowley sniffed and disappeared on down the hallway, to the kitchen. He was thinking something along the lines of mash potatoes with chives and sour cream—something simple that wouldn’t take up too much of his time or his thoughts. The roast was more important, and given just the right amount of imagination, he could get it to cook in time to have dinner at a proper time. Maybe some vegetables. Aziraphale liked those too, because he liked everything. They still had a bit of olive oil, too, which would make a nice asparagus dish. Again, something simple. Something that Aziraphale would like, more importantly. After the day he’d had, he wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. Not that he ever felt hungry, just. This time, in particularly, he was certainly not.

Somewhere between putting the roast in the oven and putting the potatoes on to boil that he had an idle thought about getting an apron. He could get one of those amusing ones that said ‘kiss the cook’ or some other manner of inappropriate kitchen behavior and use it as an instigator for something more exciting than a bed. Aziraphale had his moments; he rather had more of them than Crowley did, but they’d never done anything outside of the bed. Not even the bedroom—just the bed. Which wasn’t a bad thing, but Crowley was running out of things to think about while he stared at the oven’s timer. It wasn’t a terrible thing to let his mind wander, not when it was wandering around Aziraphale and his thighs, anyway.

Crowley snorted and eventually pushed himself up to sit on top of the island. His legs swung idly. He’d had half a mind to whip himself up a glass of wine without moving, but that would be a waste of magic and a waste of his personal collection. Tonight seemed as good a night for any as wine, though it was always a matter of which exactly. Over the years, he’d worked up quite a collection of vintage wines and liquor, always for special occasions of which there were not enough of. Especially when there was means to sober up; the alcohol didn’t vanish, it simply returned to the bottle. There was a particular favorite of his that he was sure they’d drank in its entirety three or four times by now.

There would be no sobering up tonight, however. Or ever. It was as good a night as any to try one of the others in his selection, so he popped off the island to saunter on out back to the study where Aziraphale was hard at work. To pass the time and make a bit of extra money, he’d taken up these little odd transcription jobs. They paid well enough for his time, and many of the clients even dropped an extra tip just because of how fine Aziraphale’s handwriting was. He’d had centuries to master the art, after all, though his job selections were limited because he was refusing to use a computer. Crowley would get him there eventually.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said from the doorway.

Aziraphale held a finger up to ask Crowley to wait while he finished up the last line. Then, the playback in his ear paused, and he gave Crowley his full attention, smiling as he did.

“I was thinking wine this evening. Any requests?”

“Everything on the table then? Or should my requests be restricted?” Aziraphale hummed.

“I’d prefer a bit of red wine, but other than that,” he shrugged, “whatever you want, angel.”

Aziraphale continued his humming as he thought, a pleasant little tune this time, and then beamed. “You still have that old bottle of Cheval Blanc, do you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. It was a 1947 bottle and quite dusty.

“That one, if you please.”

Crowley did please. Very much so.

He figured, later, with the amount of magic Aziraphale was about to do, it probably wouldn’t matter too much, in the scheme of things, if he sped up the roast a bit. There would still be enough time left to make the mash potatoes and do something fancy with green beans and olive oil. It wouldn’t be a particularly classy meal, not by any means, but Crowley hadn’t been planning this one for weeks. He certainly hadn’t gone shopping for it. As long as it tasted good, he supposed that was all that truly mattered. Aziraphale would eat anything he cooked and tell him it was the greatest piece of anything he’d ever had. Scarcely did Crowley believe him. Still, the compliments did wonders for his ego, so he continued on with quite some merit.

Then, as they always did, they would dine in the kitchen at the island. He didn’t have any fancy table clothes or linen, but he did have a little candle in a wonderfully hand-crafted holder that he’d acquired sometime during the 17th century—he couldn’t really remember. Still, it was lovely and bronze and looked nice with the rest of the decor. Crowley lit the candle and went out of his way to find glasses to match, too. For the wine. The plates were all black, and Crowley wasn’t about to do anything to change that.

Once he had the wine poured, just less than half each glass, the timer went off on the oven. The roast finished probably three hours early, and someone in Hell was having a grand old time wondering just what sort of reason was behind it. No one had ever come after him before; they weren’t like Heaven where they cared about what type of minute little miracles you were preforming. So, he figured no one would come after him now. Hopefully, anyway. How long their little vacation from prying eyes was going to last still had yet to be decided. Two years was a decent enough time, anyway, for Heaven and Hell to get their respective affairs and order and figure out they’d been duped. Thus, of course, Crowley’s healthy dash of fear in his day-to-day life.

His fear went no farther than ensuring he cut the roast correct for the moment, and that was enough. After that, dinner was served, and he had just enough time to stash the leftovers away in the refrigerator before it was time to attend to Aziraphale, who had no doubt not even kicked off his shoes yet, let alone dressed down for the evening. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere to go for the rest of forever. If forever were to only last until the morning, anyway, and Crowley was already thinking about how much time his plants would kill.

When he stepped out into the study, Aziraphale was in the same position he’d left him in, shoes, jacket, and all.

“Angel, dinner’s ready,” Crowley said.

“One moment,” Aziraphale replied. That meant he wasn’t listening or hadn’t actually heard Crowley but saw him enter so was doing his part for the politeness of not ignoring him. Crowley waited. Waited. And waited another minute before Aziraphale finished and looked at him.

“Dinner,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale’s face lit up immediately, “oh, goodness, is that what I’ve been smelling?”

Crowley didn’t even try to hide his smile when he nodded. He gestured with a nod and held out his hand for Aziraphale, who left everything right where it lay to join Crowley, to take his hand. Crowley led him down the hall for a short walk and presented the small little meal on the island, which may have been nothing more than thrown together, but Aziraphale still beamed when he saw it. He was ever happy to let Crowley pull back the chair for him, too, like this was some proper date, and they hadn’t spent the entire previous night in a heated argument. No. Because everything was lovely, and Aziraphale only had to smell it to know it was going to _taste_ lovely too; then there was that wine he had specifically requested.

“Oh, Crowley, dear—it looks marvelous,” Aziraphale praised.

“Thanks. Probably one of my finer achievements,” even if moments ago, Crowley was berating himself for not thinking up a better plan. Aziraphale didn’t need to know that.

Aziraphale took the first bite of potatoes, and his whole face went a lovely shade of happy pink. He took a second mouthful immediately, and Crowley lost himself in the moment with his head in his hand, just watching Aziraphale hum to himself as he took a third bite. Crowley firmly believed he was mediocre at best when it came to cooking. He couldn’t follow recipes too well, because he lacked the patience for them, and he was really only good at the simple dishes. He used up all his patience in dealing with other matters, so there was none left for the cooking. Still, Aziraphale treated every meal like it was the fine dining equivalent.

“Oh, do eat, Crowley,” Aziraphale urged after he’d finally tasted the roast. “You should always try your own creations, you know.”

Crowley looked down at his meager serving size and shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, “but it’s much more fun watching you try it.”

“Please,” Aziraphale scoffed. “You needn’t be so, well, whatever it is your being.”

“I’m flattering you.”

“Yes, flattery. Always too much flattery with you.” But Aziraphale was smiling. Crowley smiled back and conceded to try some of his own creation.

The roast was good, though he probably should have given up on it and planned it for a different night, so it could’ve cooked properly. It was a bit dry, but the flavor was there. The potatoes were quite delicious on their own, as well, if a bit chunky. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind the chunk, though, and may have actually preferred it. Crowley would have to make a note of that for later.

“Whatever is the occasion for all of this, my dear?” Aziraphale asked behind the glass of wine. “It seems awfully extravagant for just a normal day.”

“Just apologizing, I suppose,” Crowley replied in earnest.

At that, Aziraphale set down his fork and stared forward. “Oh. Oh, Crowley, there’s nothing to apologize for. We had a bit of a spat,” he dabbed off his lips with a napkin, “that’s hardly unusual.”

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t apologize for my part in it.”

“You did a rather nice job apologizing this morning,” Aziraphale reminded. “And,” this part was said pointedly, “you are forgiven.”

Crowley scrunched up his nose at that. In his mind, maybe he knew that Aziraphale forgiving him and God forgiving him were two entirely different things, but it still felt like if he was unforgivable by nature, then Aziraphale shouldn’t be able to. But he was. Always was and had never had any reservations about doing so. He forgave Crowley like he might pop those little caramel candies he sometimes kept in the shop; at a ridiculous rate. Crowley would be wrong to say he didn’t _enjoy_ the feeling it gave him, to know that he’d done no wrong by Aziraphale, and if he had, that it was behind them. Still, the warmth came with a warning sign that he shouldn’t believe it. He did believe it, because he trusted Aziraphale.

“I wasn’t very kind either, I’m afraid. Springing that on you like I did was probably a bit over the top,” Aziraphale continued. “I’m sure I made it sound like some kind of an emergency.”

“You did, but that’s just in your fashion,” Crowley said as he spun a green bean around on his fork. It was his last green bean, and his plate was cleared. Aziraphale had barely made a dent.

“Still, I should have probably been gentler with it. Either way, it’s something I feel I must do.”

“I’m rather excited for it, I’d say,” Crowley took a deep drink of wine. Enough to hide his face was Aziraphale looked a bit wide-eyed at him.

“Are you, now?”

Crowley shrugged, “it’ll be different, something new. You’ve never presented as a woman, not as far as I know.”

“No, I haven’t. Not probably since the fourteenth—”

“Damn,” Crowley sighed. He’d been asleep.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale shifted and took another slow lick of mashed potato, “either way, it’s been some time. I’m hoping that everything goes well. Oh, and I will need some assistance shopping.

“Yes, you will,” Crowley let the soft sounds slide off his tongue in a hiss, a bit of a smirk peeking out over his lips as he looked over Aziraphale. Aziraphale only rolled his eyes, but the fondness was hidden behind a bright little smile, cheeks stuffed with roast.

“More garlic next time, dear,” he said.

Crowley gave a cheeky little grin and refilled both of their wine glasses. He refilled his own a little fuller than necessary, but all comments went silent as they continued their meal. More precisely, while Aziraphale worked on his. He’d always been something of a slow eater, because he insisted on savoring every single bite like it was the finest morsel he’d ever tasted. It made for a sight, to watch, but it was less so entertaining when Crowley finished. Crowley didn’t eat at the best of times or the worst of times, generally, because food wasn’t his particular vice. Regardless of his own vices, he would be more than happy to watch Aziraphale consume in his at any time, for however long. Aziraphale was pleasant company, anyway.

They talked through the meal, while Crowley drank and Aziraphale asked if he could have seconds. Aziraphale told him stories from the bookshop that he hadn’t heard yet, and there were always many of them. When he lapsed and needed to think of another story, Crowley filled the silence with his own. Most of them were about his adventures in traffic, but to say Aziraphale listened just as attentively was an understatement. It made it quite apparent that where Crowley thought he was just filling needless time, Aziraphale thought he was living the best that he could and enjoyed it. He always asked questions and laughed when it seemed appropriate. Aziraphale was beautiful when he laughed, and when Crowley finished his story with some off-handed comment about how it was neither interesting nor funny, Aziraphale assured him the opposite. Always.

Then, after Crowley had had too much to drink, and Aziraphale was turning pink in the cheeks, they made a sort of domestic little play out of washing dishes. Aziraphale would rinse them and hand them off to Crowley, who ensured no food was left before staking it just how he preferred in the dish washer. Whenever Aziraphale was being overly meticulous, Crowley would knock their hips together in a fit of laughter, because he was drunk, and laughed harder when Aziraphale knocked him back. They did that until the dishes were in place, and the load was begun. Not a second later, Crowley had his arms around Aziraphale, hanging off of him.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Yes, hi,” Crowley replied and urged himself up just enough that he could steal a kiss. Then another. And another, until he had Aziraphale backed into the counter and bracing himself on it, while he met every kiss Crowley gave him.

“Crowley, you’re drunk,” Aziraphale did eventually manage to push off his offender, though he did so with a happy little glint in his eye and a hand through Crowley’s hair.

“Yeah, I am,” Crowley agreed in a slur.

“So, we probably shouldn’t—”

“I can sober up—”

“No, you can’t,” Aziraphale had both of his hands on Crowley’s face. “You’ve earned your hang over of the year.” Which was Aziraphale’s way of saying they shouldn’t use magic. So, fine. He was too drunk to remember not to use magic, as if that mattered. He pouted when all he got was a kiss on the forehead, but Aziraphale led him off through the hall anyway.

He promptly sat Crowley down on the bed before going back out into the flat. He turned off the lights and cleaned up the mess he’d made over Crowley’s desk. He could better pack in the morning, but a clean-up would make it easier. Afterward, he ensured that the front door was locked before returning to the bedroom. Crowley had already stripped down to his smalls and was nestled up under the sheets, his face in the pillows. Aziraphale could see the jut of his shoulder blades just above the silky black; he nearly had a pang of regret that he’d told Crowley no. He didn’t seem particularly upset about it, though, Crowley. He even rolled so he could watch Aziraphale disrobe for the evening and pull on his night shirt.

“Sent to bed without dessert,” Crowley mused.

“Yes, we also had a late dinner,” Aziraphale reminded.

Crowley whistled while he nodded, squirming around again until he was comfortably situated for Aziraphale to curl right up beside him.

“S’like having fruit for dessert instead of cake, because your mum said it’d be healthy,” he slurred together. Aziraphale smiled and patted a hand over his chest, because Crowley didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He liked cuddling up like this just as much as it seemed, the way he curled in towards Aziraphale with a near protective hold.

“When can I expect to go shopping?” he whispered into Aziraphale’s hair.

“It wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t surprise you,” Aziraphale replied, already sounding a bit starved for sleep, himself.

That was a sentiment Drunk Crowley could very much agree to. He liked surprises when he was drunk and at promptly no other time. When it involved spending money, it would probably be better to know when he was going to do it, but instead he smiled and let out a breathy laugh. A moment later, he was already asleep, leaving Aziraphale with the crippling silence and all the time of the night to think. He was left to dwell on how they’d had time enough to talk about the argument twice, but no time in the world to talk about Crowley’s experience or what Aziraphale feared that it meant. Sleep was a much better option, and he did so try to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)   
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> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, the part of the epic tale we've probably all been waiting for. I wasn't expecting to get this chapter out until tomorrow, but I've got literally no self-control, so here we are. I've even already started chapter 4, wew. It's because there's going to be a stint for a bit where I can't really do any writing, so I'm trying to do all of it now while I still have time.
> 
> I'm enjoying this, so here we go. I hope you enjoy it too!

To say that Crowley had earned a hangover was an understatement; to say that he was currently suffering one was an overstatement. There was nothing more than a light ringing in his ear when he woke up, and that turned out mostly to be caused by the shower. This morning was slow and idle, as most mornings were, where Crowley bunched himself up underneath the sheets and even had mind enough to steal one of Aziraphale’s pillows to complement his nest. Surely, he needed to get up to get dressed or start something to eat, if Aziraphale had the stomach for it. He usually did. But something about the warmth of the bed was always just enough that Crowley inevitably rolled over with the sheets up to his neck and closed his eyes once more. It was probably the change in temperature, what kept him curled up like this. One of these days, and he did promise himself, he would muster the energy to roll out of bed and join Aziraphale in the shower. It would make for a fun morning.

His mornings were rarely fun, Crowley’s. Neither were his days, but he carried on in a sort of blissful routine regardless. Aziraphale did more or less the same, though he had the shop to occupy himself, where Crowley had to search for things to do. The notion of a job had been mentioned once or twice, but Crowley didn’t see himself as the type of thing that might work for a living. Not where it wouldn’t require a little wave of his hand to get a job, anyway. As it were, he was a rather dreadful customer himself. He couldn’t imagine having to _deal_ with himself, and certainly not on a daily basis. So, if hiding away and struggling with boredom was his curse for eternity, that was surely better than the hours wasted in a shop.

Somewhere between musing about a funny little name tag and wondering how long it would take before he lost his mind, the shower clicked off. From where he was laying, he could see perfectly the bathroom door. There was even a bit of anticipation building up when he saw the handle turn—how he longed for the days when they had first found each other like this. For several of them, rather four, in fact, they hadn’t a mind for anything but each other. Crowley had thoroughly enjoyed being a demon for those four days, because they didn’t have to stop. Life caught back up with them, though, when it became clear wishing away bills and responsibilities wasn’t about to work in a world without magic. Now, he practically starved, in all overstatement once again. It had only been a couple of days. He could get his eye-full in the morning and stash that away for later.

Nothing happened quite as he expected it. Aziraphale usually just waltzed out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and everything was fine. This time, the door opened slowly, and Aziraphale peeked out before anything, and something was a little. Different. The door closed again, and Crowley pushed himself up, rubbing one of his eyes in all assumption that he just. Hadn’t seen that properly. Maybe sleep was a thicker fog than he gave credit for. He bunched the sheets up around him, regretting a bit the state of undress he’d chosen to sleep in the night before, and watched the door again.

“Angel?” he called.

“J-just a moment!” Aziraphale replied, and nothing _sounded_ different. That was definitely Aziraphale’s voice, ever the same as it was, even if it was nervous.

“You slip or something?”

“No! No, I’m quite alright, just—a moment, if you please.”

A moment then. Exactly a moment, ninety seconds, and the bathroom door was opening again. To say this wasn’t how Crowley expected things to go was a gross understatement, as was the morning’s theme. It was Aziraphale who stepped out of the bathroom, but it was an Aziraphale he’d never seen before. Crowley sat there with his eyes stupidly wide, bled entirely yellow from a sudden lack of control; his face had even heated. A bit pink, he suspected, looking forward. Maybe his tongue had even slipped out, and if it had, it would be pleasing to not hear about it for the rest of his days. That snake tongue thing—he didn’t need to know if he did it sometimes. What he needed to know is why he’d been such an arse about this in the first place, two days prior.

Aziraphale was a _sight._ He was _everything._ He was every bit the same that he usually was, but his hair was suddenly long. Longer than Crowley had ever seen it, pasted to his shoulders and his neck. When it would dry—oh, Crowley couldn’t imagine what it would look like. Then, his towel was up and around his chest this time, as if that really left anything to Crowley’s imagination. He could see the curve of them, plump and full breasts that seemed just to fit into the rest of him in size and weight. Crowley couldn’t really think. He let his eyes wander down and noted just the few differences after that. His waist seemed to be higher, his hips more pronounced, and the rest was just. Aziraphale. All reddish pink skin from the heat of the shower and soft, as he’d always been.

“Can you please stop staring?” Aziraphale muttered. His voice hadn’t changed, which wasn’t surprising. When Crowley’s name had been Astaroth and he’d been Warlock’s nanny, he’d never once considered the extra effort to sound different. Besides, it worked. For Aziraphale, specifically. Crowley was slinking out of the bed before he’d even realized.

“I can’t help it,” Crowley told him with genuine concern. He came to a full stop just inches away from Aziraphale, hands to himself. “You’re lovely.”

Aziraphale stiffened, and the breath he took was loud. He didn’t seem able to meet Crowley’s glance, but didn’t reject him either, when Crowley moved to interlock their fingers.

“Please,” Aziraphale breathed, “I’m a mess.”

“You?” Crowley found this amusing. “You’re always so well put together. Maybe I like seeing you a mess.”

“I don’t think it matters if you _like_ it,” Aziraphale responded, but he still let Crowley step into his personal space.

“It doesn’t, you’re right. It matters if _you_ like it, and—do you?” his voice was nothing more than a whisper.

Aziraphale gave a feeble little nod. “That doesn’t mean I like your staring, though.”

“Can’t help myself.” Crowley had pulled back one of his hands to dance his fingertips over Aziraphale’s collarbone, then down to the edge of the towel where he could see Aziraphale’s new tits. He didn’t go any further and kept his eyes on Aziraphale’s face, watching the way he sort of blushed and ducked his eyes. Crowley waited. He merely lingered over the towel. Waiting. He _needed_ permission. If there was none to be had, that would be fine too, but he felt a sudden need to assure Aziraphale that this decision was good. It was right. They would press on as they always did.

Aziraphale let out a shuddering sigh and just. He kept his eyes down, but he nodded. With permission now, Crowley still moved slow as he undid the wrap. When the towel dropped to the floor, Crowley continued to stare. Unblinking, because he didn’t need to blink, and he didn’t want to miss a second of what was before him.

“Can I touch you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded once more.

Crowley moved slowly, like Aziraphale would shatter under anything else. He started at his neck, just touching, before sliding his hands down over Aziraphale’s collarbone. He didn’t jump straight to it, like he wanted, and instead ran his hands over Aziraphale’s arms, then back up again. Aziraphale shuddered, but he didn’t move away. He even looked up at Crowley, finally, with red cheeks. There was a smile edging forward on his lips, which meant that Crowley’s meager little plan was working. That gave him enough courage to do what he’d really wanted to do, which was smooth his hands over Aziraphale’s breasts and cup them, each in one hand. Aziraphale had stopped breathing three seconds prior.

For a horrifying moment, Crowley had a passing thought that he might _love_ Aziraphale. Which wasn’t something he was capable of, being a demon, and in contrast—there was no way Aziraphale could love him back. Whatever they had going was good, and it wasn’t worth destroying over a silly, four-letter word.

“How should I call you now?” Crowley asked, quietly. He brushed his thumb over Aziraphale’s nipple and marveled at how he shuddered.

“Just the same,” Aziraphale replied, breathless.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and it sounded something like a prayer in that moment. Crowley dropped his hands and let them slip down Aziraphale’s stomach, over his sides, until he eventually had to drop to his knees. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hips and whispered his name again, and again, and sliding his hands down Aziraphale’s thighs until he’d had his eyeful. Aziraphale always preferred to make no effort if no effort was required, and that hadn’t changed here. Crowley loved it all the same but resisted the urge to do anything further. He stood up and let his hands dangle innocently at his side.

“You’re lovely,” he managed to say, face a little red now. He’d already—he’d already said that. He’d said it again, like some kind of idiot, but. Aziraphale smiled a soft and sweet little thing with his lips. Crowley melted.

“I was thinking I might go in a bit later this morning,” Aziraphale said. “If that’s alright with you. I wouldn’t mind to walk, if you’re busy.”

“Believe me, angel, I’m never too busy for you.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were still pink, and Crowley couldn’t help himself. They deserved a nice, slow morning, so he leaned down and stole a kiss. Aziraphale pulled him back in for another one and pressed against him, still wet and entirely naked. Crowley was no better off, wearing nothing but his drawers, and the feeling between them was hot and—too much for how much work they had to get done, but Crowley kissed him for all he was worth until it was time to stop.

“I’ll need clothes,” Aziraphale laughed.

“We can get you some. I can put off the plants if you’d like to go shopping,” Crowley offered. He had his arms wrapped low around Aziraphale’s waist, keeping him close and their chests pressed together.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask; I’m offering. We can go out for brunch, if you’d please.”

Aziraphale paused at that. He let his arms hang loose around Crowley’s neck and had a sudden, idle thought that it was a strange thing for Crowley to give up something he loved to do—something he’d planned for—just to take him for brunch and shopping. Both were things he could very well do on his own time, without Crowley’s help.

“Brunch does sound lovely.”

“I know it does,” because tempting Aziraphale with food had never failed.

“I should get ready, though. My hair’s rather a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I haven’t had long hair in such, well,” and he laughed at this, “a long time.”

“You could’ve kept it short, you know,” Crowley mused, but he dragged his fingers through the wet strands anyway. “Lots of women have short hair. It’s fashionable.”

“Yes, well. I like long hair,” he said pointedly, and smiled, because Crowley had grown his hair out specifically for that reason. Silly that he would have forgotten, and even sillier that he’d tried to pretend that wasn’t the reason for it. Still, the long hair suited Aziraphale, and he would say no more on the subject.

Crowley bent down to grab the discarded towel and drape it over Aziraphale’s shoulders, a fluffy little black cape, and pecked him on the forehead. He ushered him back into the bathroom with explicit permission to use whatever of Crowley’s hair products he felt necessary, which included a hairdryer, while he went off to dress himself for the day. He was already thinking about what sorts of wonderful things they could buy for Aziraphale. His pants would probably still fit well enough, but what if he wanted to try skirts or a dress. Crowley was quite a fan of both, though he didn’t get up to wearing them much in the present day. Aziraphale certainly could, if he wanted; he had the shape for it.

Crowley pulled on a pair of dark wash jeans and haphazardly tucked a dark blue shirt into them. His sports jacket was still on the floor. He picked up and dusted it off briefly before shrugging it on over his shoulders. Through the bathroom doorway, he could see Aziraphale working with his hair slowly. He wasn’t as familiar with haircare as he otherwise ought to be, but there hadn’t been any reason for it before now. Crowley took pity on him anyway and sauntered into the bathroom to pluck the hairdryer right out of his hand. With his fingers, he gestured for Aziraphale’s hairbrush. Once he had it, and the sound of the dryer drowned out his complaining, Crowley got to work.

There had been a fair amount of time for Crowley to find a certain skill with this sort of work. Hair dressing had its own particular set of difficulties, but with how often he walked around with long hair, it had proved helpful to somewhat master them. It was easier now, in the modern time, than it had been all the way back in Golgotha. Crowley thought idly that Aziraphale would look wonderful with one big braid down his back, but they didn’t have time for that. As his hair dried, though, it curled. Aziraphale had always had curly hair, as it seemed to fit well with his personality. Being an angel, too. Now, the curls were longer and just as tight.

“Aside from the middle part,” Crowley said, once he’d set down the blow dryer, “your hair is perfect.”

“Please,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I thought it would be nice.”

“It is nice, but there’s a hair tie in the top drawer there. Fetch it for me, hm?” Crowley was already pulling back a few of the strands into his hand. Aziraphale huffed but did as he was asked. Once Crowley had the hair tie, he crafted a half-bun out of the strands he’d gathered, while the rest of Aziraphale’s curls hung around his shoulders. That was the first second that Crowley realized Aziraphale had dropped the towel again, because his curls nearly reached his chest.

Crowley gulped.

“Well, time to get dressed then,” Crowley said, and the little smirk on Aziraphale’s lips did not go unnoticed, but it went ignored. It had been less than thirty minutes, and Aziraphale already had caught on. Well enough, then; Crowley would just keep his eyes up and leave his curiosity aside.

Aziraphale’s clothes fit a little off, but they did fit. Not quite as well tailored as he would’ve liked, but that was the entire point of shopping. He could send them off for tailoring if he really required, but hopefully they could just find something that would work. There had never been a huge need for Aziraphale to have a wide variety of outfits, as his fashion tended to consist of beige, yellow, and tartan. Tartan was no longer stylish, but Crowley had given up on trying to convince Aziraphale of that, and he continued to wear it. Just another peculiarity of his, and one that might be difficult to upkeep if they were to shop at modern stores for modern people. Crowley would surely have a field day putting together outfits for him, though. It would be fun. Something red, maybe; when Crowley eyed him with a smirk, Aziraphale only raised a rather unimpressed eyebrow.

After, Crowley did as every gentleman should and opened the Bentley passenger door for him, for which Aziraphale was thankful. If they were going to drive at relatively top speed all around London, at least Crowley could be polite about it. Then, their drive was rather uneventful. Crowley drove reasonably, no traffic issues that were out of the ordinary arose, and Crowley opened the door again for Aziraphale when they’d arrived at the clothing shop—the only one Aziraphale had ever really wanted to shop at, because it appealed to the little niche he’d found himself in old fashioned clothing. Even if Crowley could dream about what fun he’d have dressing Aziraphale in red and leather and jeans, he still knew what the angel liked best. There would be time for fashion exploration at any point.

“Do you fancy a skirt or a suit?” Crowley asked, a bit of a fiendish look painted over his face.

“I’m not against either,” Aziraphale admitted. “Though, I’d rather like to see what they have before I make any decisions.”

Crowley could respect that, well enough. He knew already that Aziraphale would pick up whatever looked similar to what he was already wearing, made for a female’s body. Reasonably speaking, all he would’ve had to do was get the current outfit tailored again, but they’d run into this same issue if Aziraphale ever chose to present male again. That was a topic that seemed a bit strange, if not sensitive, even if the reason behind the presentation wasn’t entirely internal. It still didn’t feel right for Crowley to ask, so he didn’t. He shoved it onto the long list of things they didn’t talk about, right under the obsession with crepes and right above if they were in a relationship or not. That one was last.

The shop was full of boring, uptight, and neutral clothes. None of it was red, and none of it was that bit of something extra Crowley thought might be fun to try. But Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at a waistcoat hanging not too far from the entrance, that was the same beige color he wore but with beautiful embellishments and embroidery. Maybe the price tag was something they should be concerned about, but Crowley wouldn’t be able to say no to anything Aziraphale found. It even made the shopping trip more bearable when all he had to do was watch Aziraphale happily flit about the racks and pick what he wanted. Through the excitement, he did even manage to pull a skirt or two. One of them was even knee length instead of ankle length; ever about as scandalous as Aziraphale would get.

About halfway through, Aziraphale had gone off with the shop attendant and left Crowley to wander. Where Aziraphale liked the assistance and the attentions of shop workers, Crowley preferred to do everything himself—but his fashion wasn’t quite as welcome in a shop like this, which he understood and didn’t argue. Instead, he poked about the racks of clothing they hadn’t looked at, just to see if it was possible for anything to spark his interest. Not that he had been expecting anything, but he did come across a rather stylized coat with buttons in the front and ruffles in the back that he thought would quite fit Aziraphale. Only, when he looked up, Aziraphale and the shop attendant had gone off somewhere he couldn’t see right away. Probably to the back, to the fitting rooms or the intimates—because Aziraphale would need those too.

Halfway turning on his heel, Crowley about knocked into someone who’d been standing not half a foot and directly behind him. The person, whoever they were, hardly looked phased at the encounter. They only stared up at Crowley with a strange look on their face, one that seemed to read they weren’t too impressed with what they were looking at. Still, ever a gentleman, Crowley muttered out an apology. Before they could respond, if they had ever intended to, Aziraphale’s voice rang out from across the shop. Crowley looked. Looked back. And the person was gone. Aziraphale called again, so it was quickly forgotten.

“Oh, what’s that?” Aziraphale chirped.

“I found a coat,” Crowley held it out. “Thought you might like it. Cold weather and all, you know,” he shrugged it off.

Aziraphale seemed touched all the same and took the jacket. “It looks lovely. I should try it on, then.”

“Whatever you want, angel.”

“Oh? And who’s this?” the shop attendant had rounded the corner of the shop and returned with something in her arms. She took one look at Crowley and smiled. “Husband, then? Rather fine one at that.”

Aziraphale sputtered, and Crowley pushed his glasses farther up his nose. Whatever it was she seemed to think they meant, she indicated she understood, and turned her attention back to Aziraphale. They couldn’t rightfully tell her they’d never discussed what they were—though, marriage was certainly not something they’d done. They wouldn’t need to, really, being immortal supernatural beings. But to each their own. Crowley figured she’d taken the response to mean that he was _a_ husband, just not Aziraphale’s. That would be a scandal all on its own.

Once Aziraphale had gathered everything he was sure he would want, provided the fit, Crowley found a nice and comfortable spot on a padded bench. The shop was decorated painfully with fake plants and crystals, which was fine enough on its own, save that it all looked fake. Over the top. Not enough to distract Crowley from looking off towards the door of the shop. He wondered, then, about that person he’d nearly plowed over. Like most shops, this one had a bell attached to the door, one he had neither heard ring the first or the second time—for this patron to enter and exit. If he was right and not absolutely losing his mind, this was the third time this had happened. Three was magic enough of a number that he was leaning towards not crazy and more onto something, but it was still up in the air.

It was finally Aziraphale who got his attention, stepping out of the dressing room and calling for him. Crowley looked. Blinked. Then decided that blinking was a waste of his time when he could be looking at _that_ , which was a dark pencil skirt with a white blouse, a ruffled boarder around the buttons. It was the perfect sort of thing he could wear a waist coat over and still look quite put together, or even roll up the sleeves. Crowley was nothing less than smitten and leaned back in the couch with a bit of a smirk.

“How do I look?” Aziraphale asked.

“Stunning,” without missing a beat.

Aziraphale hummed and turned so he could see himself in the mirror. “It’s a bit breezy, though it’s not really any different than the robes we used to wear, hm?”

“Probably more conservative, but it suits you. I like it.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s smile was wide and true. He ducked back into the dressing room to try on the next outfit.

They continued on until Aziraphale had gone through the entire stack of clothing and sorted out what he wanted and what he would skip on. Eventually, he came to a pile, of which the coat Crowley picked out was a part of, and the attendant took the stack off to the counter to start ringing. The rest was left in the dressing room to be dealt with later, though Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little bad. He’d taken up quite a lot of the woman’s time, even if she was ever glad to help. They joined her at the counter where she was ringing up the final pair of slacks.

The total was enough to make Crowley’s glasses fall down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t hesitate to hand over a card. The attendant gave him an eye with a smile, probably something about a kept-woman, or whatever it was. Crowley didn’t mind the assumptions and took his card back when she handed it to him. When he looked over at Aziraphale, he was fidgeting and looking rather guilty. Not so guilty to keep up the look, though, when he got to carry his bags. Despite the amount it had cost, he was rather happy with the expedition. Especially with what would soon be part two of their expedition—brunch.

They found brunch at a quaint little family run diner they’d visited on occasion, no more than three times before in the entire time they’d lived in Soho. The family was nice enough to all of their patrons, and they made good food. Food being the more important aspect of coming here, even if Crowley was only thinking about grabbing a coffee. He did grab a table while Aziraphale ducked into their bathroom to change clothes for the day, because after this he would be dropped at the bookshop, leaving Crowley free to do what he’d planned. Not so behind schedule, because they were becoming early birds. Truly terrifying.

The waitress came by with menus, a lovely little girl with bright green eyes, and Crowley asked for a black coffee and a hot tea. For his partner, he said with a grin, that would be arriving in a moment. The girl did smile, left the two menus, and skirted off behind the counter to start the drinks. Crowley, in the meantime, spun his fork around on the table and tapped his knuckles into the seat next to his thigh. Waiting was the worst part about nearly everything, because Aziraphale had never wanted to go fast. Not when it came to eating, to dressing, showering, love making—living, really. Crowley waited, as he always did, and glanced out the window. In a sudden rush of cars, he could’ve sworn he saw someone standing across the street with very dark eyes—but it all passed as it had before.

“—Crowley!” Aziraphale _nearly_ raised his voice, but not quite.

Crowley jerked around to see Aziraphale standing there, all in the new way that he was with his long, curled hair and wearing the cute little pencil skirt they’d picked up.

“Angel,” Crowley replied. “Sorry. Must have been distracted.”

“Obviously. So, tell me what you think,” he spread his arms out just so that Crowley could get the full effect. It was mostly the same outfit he’d tried on at the shop, but he was wearing that rather fitted waistcoat with the embroidery over top of it, his pocket watch back in place, and the coat that Crowley had picked.

“Stunning,” Crowley told him, and he meant it.

Aziraphale smiled, did that little wiggle thing he did when he was over-the-moon with joy, and sat down at the table across from Crowley. The waitress returned not a second later with the coffee and tea, which she served respectfully. Her demeanor seemed to have changed from when she’d first greeted Crowley. Instead, she was looking at Aziraphale with a bit of a knitted glance. Like. Concern, perhaps. Confusion, even. Crowley didn’t much care for it, but she left soon enough and disappeared back behind the counter. She hadn’t even asked if they were ready to order. As it was completely against proper manners, Crowley was about to complain, but Aziraphale was already happily humming over the menu.

The menu was one large plastic thing that reminded him of something he’d seen in America for the week or so he’d popped over for a visit. The whole diner they were in reminded him of that week, but maybe that was the point. Some cutesy tourist thing to drive business to a place that otherwise might just barely make end’s meat. Still, they had a healthy mix of American food and English food, so it was well enough that they could come here when it suited them. It was particularly available for brunch. Crowley was all the happier to muse on about these tidings than he was to do any real ordering, but Aziraphale was enthralled with the menu as he always was.

“I think I’ll try something different today,” Aziraphale said.

“A scandal, I’m sure,” Crowley responded.

Aziraphale shot a glare over the top of his menu. “Will you be eating anything, my dear?”

“Nah. Don’t have the stomach for it today,” he was too busy thinking about the strangeness happening around him at the moment. “Dinner, though. Maybe. I might save that for tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes. The reservation,” Aziraphale twiddled in his seat, cheerfully and happy. “I’m quite excited to return to the Ritz. It’s been too long.”

They trailed off in conversation then, Aziraphale happy to reminisce about how wonderful it had been when Crowley asked him to move in, and Crowley happy to listen. A waiter stopped by the table some ten minutes later to take their order, with a profuse apology that their waitress had to go home sick. His name was Brandon, and he would be taking care of them instead. He seemed much more flustered and animated than the girl had, who had not even introduced herself, Crowley realized. She knew well enough how to make coffee and tea, but everything else was now starting to smell a little odd. Rather than bring it up, Crowley kept his lips shut and let Aziraphale order whatever it was he wanted. All of it was masked under the phrase of sharing or ordering for Crowley, who’d apparently come down with a bit of a cold and wasn’t feeling well enough to talk.

“Careful,” Crowley said, once Brandon had trotted off, “they might think we’re out to a morning date.”

“Would it be so bad if we were?” Aziraphale asked before he could stop himself.

Crowley immediately downed the air with coffee instead of formulating a response to that. Aziraphale sipped at his tea and leaned forward onto the table. They hadn’t talked about it, but that so much therein felt well enough an answer to Aziraphale that he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to talk about it. Save the one sliver of doubt in his mind when Crowley had finally downed the steaming liquid, and his face was red. Not so red in the way that he’d just drank something scalding without so much as breathing between gulps, but in the way that his ears had also gone off in embarrassment. With that new piece of information, Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that peaked up on his lips behind his teacup.

Maybe there was a chance after all.

Much of Crowley’s behavior could be fixed around like kindness. They were friends, after all, and Crowley was kind, even if he didn’t care to admit it. It was a kindness built up on a utilitarian ground, and Aziraphale had never looked any further. It had always seemed a sturdy foundation for whatever it was they were getting up to, so he enjoyed it. The extra indulgences just appeared as something a friend would do. Nothing more. There had been some flicker, once, when Aziraphale thought there might have been something. Crowley had gone out of his way to save the books in Germany; how could Aziraphale not melt after that scene. Crowley had looked so good in that suit, wearing hubris like a mantle of honor because he just knew what his actions had caused: a cascade of doubt and emotion. A temptation, perhaps.

There had been many temptations, of course, and Aziraphale was privy to every one of them. He’d let them happen. He enjoyed them. All the same as Crowley enjoyed falling to a few niceties every now and again. It created something that felt rather neutral, between them, in the way that Aziraphale understood what their side really colored out to be. They were neither of Heaven nor Hell. Maybe they never had been. Maybe this middle ground was what they’d been working for all this time. Unfortunately, the only problem remained that neither of them had ever brought the issue up, never talked about it. So, they carried on in such a way where they did not talk about it. Each of them was left to their own devices to pick and pull at confusion and curiosity until only doubt remained between them.

Doubt, and a steaming pile of French Toast—which was not French, Aziraphale always liked to say. He enjoyed it all the same with a healthy covering of powdered sugar and syrup. Crowley had nothing more than a refill of his coffee.

There was nothing nice or kind about the way Crowley watched Aziraphale eat. It remained the one action Aziraphale hadn’t been able to explain away with assumptions about Crowley’s behavior and their friendship. Oddly, it reminded him of the way doting couples would often confess to watching the other sleep for a time. It reminded him of this only because Aziraphale did, on more or less frequent occasions, watch Crowley sleep. They did sleep in the same bed. Of course, that had been the arrangement from the moment Aziraphale moved in—they hadn’t talked about it, it just happened. Only Crowley tended to sleep, and Aziraphale would wait up with books and a low-light lamp. When the books proved not enough to entertain him for the night, and only because he didn’t want to bear the cruelty of leaving Crowley to sleep alone, he would turn his attention there. On Crowley.

Crowley, as a rule, didn’t dream. Angels and Demons really had no use for dreaming, because they had no use for sleeping. If the right effort was made, and sometimes it was, dreams could happen. It was more or less something Angels had a better hold on, because Demons had no imagination. But the rest of the mechanics were the same. The first time Aziraphale had watched the funny little way Crowley’s eyes darted around under his eyelids was fascinating and beautiful all at once—because Crowley had been dreaming. Had at least, then, made the effort to dream. Sometimes, he looked rather peaceful. Others, Aziraphale wondered if it might not have been a kind thing to wake him up with how fretful he looked. He never had woken Crowley. He didn’t want Crowley to know that he watched him—it felt just as creepy as it sounded, and Aziraphale wrote it up under one of his few indulgences.

A few days ago, Crowley’s dream had looked something rather painful. Aziraphale still hadn’t done a damn thing about it. This was his secret, because he feared how Crowley might react if he knew.

After the meal, Crowley dropped Aziraphale at the shop with a kiss on his cheek before he left the car. They were both nervous about this part, about Aziraphale walking in as a new person to his own shop and what that might mean. Crowley was never more than a phone call away, though, and he did pay mind to remind Aziraphale of that before he’d gone too far. Aziraphale did smile and feel ever safe with that reminder, so he stepped into the shop and opened it. Once the little sign had been flipped, Crowley rolled his window back up and took off from the sidewalk. He had their leftovers, the bags, and a morbid little thought about how much fun he’d have now that it was time for potting.

That would be at the end of his list, however. When he arrived at the flat, the first thing he had to do was handle everything in just so the right way that he could carry all of the bags and leftovers in one trip, while still retaining a hand for the doors. It took some doing, but he accomplished his first task with flying colors, and only dropped a bag once right in front of his own door. Then, with the leftovers in the refrigerator, Crowley moved on to the bedroom to lay out the clothing on the bed. Aziraphale would want them washed before he wore them, the quick change at the diner only for necessity. The least Crowley could do would be to get the tags off and sort them out by light and dark, to make the washing easier.

Potting the plants again was an occasion he dressed down for, into a pair of jeans that had holes in the knees and frayed hems and a t-shirt that he’d picked up somewhere along the line because it hadn’t been too expensive. He tied his hair back into a half bun, to keep it out of his face, and placed his sunglasses on the nightstand table. He still had nearly all day to get this done, and hoped he’d have it done by the time it was time to pick up Aziraphale. Almost all of the plants needed new pots, but if all he managed was the laceleaf, that would just be alright. Everything else would wait if he told them too, but it probably wouldn’t come to that.

He started with laying out paper over the floor of the plant room. All of it was old newspaper he’d probably meant to read or throw away at some point, just hadn’t really gotten around to it. It worked well enough for this specific purpose, anyway. Then the pot, the tools, and the soil. Most importantly left was the plant, which Crowley brought to the floor with great care as just the calm before the storm. If she didn’t do better in a bigger pot, or if she put this new potential to waste, it would be into the waste with her, and he’d have to go about finding another plant to take her place.

While he worked on preparing the new pot, it dawned on him how tedious this was becoming. House plants were wonderful, but his own potential was being squandered here with plants that had boundaries. If he lived anywhere in the countryside, he thought he might like a nice garden. He could grow those strawberries he’d been thinking about, or any other type of food plant right alongside the flowers and the leaves. Soho wasn’t anything like the countryside, though, and this was the best he would get here. All he could do went appreciated, of course, because at least he’d chosen a flat with proper room and proper lighting to grow plants like this. Only, it remained that he had potential he couldn’t reach, which was just as frustrating as all the time he was trying to fill waiting for things to progress in the ever-slow manner that they did. That, and this was messy. Potting indoors was messy. Plants of this magnitude were messy.

Of everything in his life, at the moment, the plants were the only thing messy. Everything else fit neatly into a block of preplanned routine. It had been nice, for some time, not having to think too hard about what he was going to do or where they might go together. Especially after the Apocalypse-that-Never, he’d reveled in the break. For eleven years, his life was less of a routine and more of a jumbled mess of parts all put together in strange ways. After the Nanny, he’d been one of Warlock’s tutors. Following, he’d just been a face in the crowd. Then it had turned into the wrong boy event, and everything faltered quite quickly from there. The routine had been a nice change of pace after that, which had all been too fast even for Crowley, but now. Now, it was all quite _stifling._ Constricting. Suffocating.

Crowley’s life had dwindled down to a sad countdown for the one or two interesting things he still had left to do. The one thing that proved to be less of a countdown and more of a constant joy was reined in by the size of his flat, and the one person that proved to be substantial was idly flitting about in a bookshop without a real care in the world for him. Other than, perhaps, a friend. Friends who, for some reason, lived together and slept together and fucked together. Crowley had heard of stranger things in stranger places, though, so he never let himself dwell too long. Dwelling, for all it was worth, was all he had left to do these days, now working the laceleaf out of her pot with glorious little threats on his tongue.

Maybe they should talk about it. The Ritz was well enough a place as any to talk about it, provided Crowley could get drunk enough to breach the subject. It wasn’t that he was afraid, no. He was terrified. The kind of fear he only remembered twice before in his life: once, when Satan was rising to meet his son, and twice when he’d first begun the Fall. This situation was far less a life or death one but terrifying all the same. He couldn’t see an outcome, at the end of it. Uncertainty was often a bigger evil than any demon could imagine mustering; Crowley believed that. And, damn it all, uncertainty was his best friend these days.

He roughly worked the laceleaf into the new pot, a decorative little blue thing with golden filigrees and lines, trying to behave like a finer pot than it was. Crowley didn’t buy the pots for looks, though, he bought them for size and for bargain. This pot in particular had been gathering dust for about eight months now, so it was due for a bit of work. The laceleaf seemed to fit right inside and find a pleasant little home, which would hopefully mean she would find her potential in this pot. If Crowley had been a plant, and there were days he wished he could somehow master that bit of magic, he was due for a new pot. He was due for a lot of things, but a new pot was certainly one of them. There was no where he could go, though, that Aziraphale would follow. Not just because Aziraphale had his shop to mind, but because Aziraphale would never follow him.

Two years. Crowley had mused around these idle things for two years, and never once had they said anything different to him. Aziraphale and he were friends, but the potential for more would never be realized. Not as long as they remained what they were, and they would remain as such forever. Heaven had cast their gaze away, sure, but they had not cast Aziraphale away. His wings were still beautiful and white and _there._ Crowley’s were black, but there was an itch at the back of his mind that said even that was incorrect. Not incorrect in accordance with reality, just that maybe reality wasn’t always what she seemed to be.

He had time enough to pot three of the other plants before he needed to pack away his things and hop in the shower for a quick clean. Perhaps in a bit of oversight, he changed right back into his ripped jeans and t-shirt when he’d finished though. Both of which needed washing. He would need another one, but that could wait for the morning. A.Z Fell & Co. wasn’t open on the weekends, usually. Sometimes he opened on Saturdays and sometimes he didn’t; this Saturday was important, though, so he would not. If he tried to, Crowley might hiss at him and decide to cancel their whole plan in a fit of petty anguish. Aziraphale didn’t need to know that, though. It would sound too much like a threat.

No, instead they had plans. Perhaps a nice walk through St. James’ Park was in order. It’d been awhile since they popped through just to feed the ducks and talk, maybe grab an ice cream together. After the initial kidnapping, it had been weeks before Crowley would even deign entertain the idea of visiting the park or the bandstand. Eventually, Aziraphale got the better of him, and they’d managed to stop by every now and again. They managed to do that a lot—something, every now and again. Something idle and normal and perfectly fitted into their routine.

Crowley even thought the routine might have suited them, if they were anything.

He realized idly, outside of the bookshop while Aziraphale was locking up, that anywhere they might go as a ‘them’ would have to be a place fit for a massive collection of books. Those weren’t something Aziraphale was about to leave behind, not with how much care he’d put into collecting them and collecting them again. Then, it was time to collect Aziraphale. Crowley pulled himself out of the car to greet him, leaning back into the car door with a practiced nonchalance and a smile.

“Evening, angel,” he said.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale always smiled like he wasn’t expecting Crowley to return for him. “You look quite a mess, my dear.”

“Do I? I’m starting to think disheveled suits me,” a comment in which Aziraphale did not disagree with, just hummed happily and let Crowley open the passenger door for him.

“Speaking of dressing,” Aziraphale continued, “were you quite serious when you meant to, well, purchase something for me?”

“You mean on top of what I’ve already bought you today?” Crowley asked, ducking down to get into the car.

“Oh, please. You know very well I will pay you back when we get home.” Petulant, as always. “I mean your rather crude suggestion earlier that I—well, that you would—” Aziraphale squeezed his hands together.

Crowley nearly laughed. “That was a real suggestion, but if you’re really that put off by it.”

“No, no, that’s just it. I’m not put off by it at all, really. In fact, I’m rather excited to see what you’ll pick.”

Crowley nearly hit a pedestrian after that but managed to swerve out of the way just in time. He regarded Aziraphale with a bit of a wide-eyed and shocked little look, even his pupils a bit blown for the idea.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint, then,” Crowley said, turning his eyes back to the road.

They left the conversation there when Crowley pulled up to the building. They went inside the building. Once holed up the flat, Aziraphale stopped in the plant room to marvel over the beauties and their new pots. The laceleaf, in particular, seemed to bristle whenever Aziraphale walked by. She was a traitor already, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to fault her for it. He had rather the same reaction in Aziraphale’s presence, even if he was none the wiser to said reaction. Neither of them was, really. All the same, though, because they were professionals at moving forward like everything in the world was fine. Aziraphale was rather quite taken by the clothing all laid out on the bed, as well, because Crowley had spared him a very important thought and taken the time to do this.

Routine separated out, then, into something more personal. Crowley decided to hop on the computer for the evening and poke about at news articles and finances. There was plenty of money to cover what he’d spent on Aziraphale, and he wouldn’t be taking any payment back. Conversely, Aziraphale set out to do laundry. He was quite particular about it, after all, even to the point that he’d insisted on doing Crowley’s laundry too. Crowley, who always had such an eye for fashion, ought to have had an eye for how he washed said fashion, too. But before the Apocalypse-that-Never, he’d rather just wished his clothes clean. His dirty little secret, so to say, and he would never say. The laundry room had been for show, but now was getting quite it’s fair share of use.

Then, when it was completely dark outside and the last load was out of the dryer, laid out for the evening to prevent wrinkles, they reconvened in the bedroom to get ready for bed. Crowley hadn’t a second thought about stripping down to his drawers and kicking the rest off in the general vicinity of the hamper. He could shower in the morning, before he popped the surprise visit to St. James’ Park. When he turned, though, to look across the bed, Aziraphale was just standing there with a bit of a strange look on his face. The coat had been neatly hung in the closet already, with the waist coat, but everything else was just where it had been before. Neatly fitted to every new curve of his body and definitely not on the floor or in the hamper.

“You going to sleep dressed for a meeting then, angel?” Crowley asked.

“No. No. Perhaps I shouldn’t, well. I mean to say that perhaps my night would be better spent in the lounge. Yes. I’m sure there’s work I need to do.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve just begun inventory again, and there is rather a lot to double check on here, too. I have moved some of my books here, and I can’t quite remember—” when Aziraphale caught Crowley staring with that same raised eyebrow, dumbfounded look, he cut himself off. “Do stop staring, please.”

“Can’t. You’re being ridiculous. Nothing’s changed that you can’t sleep in the same bed with me, has it?” he was almost afraid something had.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then?” Crowley pressed.

Aziraphale let out a small huff. Nothing had changed, so to say. Nothing that he really could talk about in such an open manner in such an intimate setting. Instead, he settled for the convenient lie of the evening. “I don’t wish to be watched.”

Crowley still looked a little dumbfounded and might have gone off onto a speech about how it had never mattered before. They’d undressed right in front of each other too many times to count. But that would’ve been rather uncalled for, especially given that this wasn’t a body Aziraphale was used to. It would serve him a bit to be entirely comfortable, and Crowley could respect that. He gave a half bow and turned, sitting on the bed with his back to Aziraphale.

There was a shuffling of clothes, then, while Aziraphale disrobed. It was a rushed and hurried thing, how he undressed, and then quickly threw on his nightshirt. It still fit, though there hadn’t been a doubt that it would. Before he gave Crowley the okay, he’d already climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chest. Then.

“You can look now,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley turned halfway, his knee pulled up on the bed, and looked at Aziraphale. “You’re not ashamed, are you?” he asked.

“No—Heavens, no,” Aziraphale smiled. “Just nervous, is all.”

Crowley gave him a bit of a fond smile before crawling onto the bed. He sat on his knees directly beside Aziraphale and asked, always asked, before he reached out and ran his finger over Aziraphale’s cheek. Then, he reached behind him and pulled his hair loose of the tie.

“You don’t want to sleep in that,” he said, pulling his own hair loose. “You’ll wake with a pounding headache, I guarantee it.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. He took the hair tie from Crowley and slipped it over his wrist.

“Seriously, angel. If you’d rather stay the night elsewhere, I won’t be offended.”

Crowley slipped under the blankets after that, letting them pool at his hips even while he laid down and buried his face in the pillows. He was always one for nesting, in bed. Sleeping with a partner hadn’t made for any major accommodations, though, which had always left Aziraphale a little curious about his past when it came to housemates. Bedmates, even. Once he was settled, he popped open one eye to look at Aziraphale.

“I’ll stay here, if you please,” Aziraphale muttered.

“You’re more than welcome to it.”

Aziraphale gave a bit of a weak smile. The lights were down, and his lamp was dimmed, and he picked up a book in hopes it might calm the nerves. Within moments, Crowley was asleep, and Aziraphale was once more left with nothing but silence and thoughts. Thoughts, he dared to say, that were better left un-thought. Crowley had not so much as asked about how the shop had gone that day with the new change, and though there was still the rest of eternity to bring it up, there was still a slight sting at it. Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned it himself, either, but he had had a bit of a hope that Crowley would have just. Thought to ask. These were the thoughts he wished he didn’t think, because Crowley had done enough for him already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 𓆏𓆏  
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	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent an unnecessarily long amount of time on the Ritz's website for this chapter, and I expect to be compensated in full with some crackers or something. I'm hungry.
> 
> I can't believe I was one again caught lying in the comments.

Crowley asked about the shop come the next morning while he helped Aziraphale shrug on one of his new fitted jackets. Aziraphale had chosen slacks and a low-cut blouse for the day, but the jacket was vital because the weather was getting cooler. Because Crowley had already spilled the surprise when they’d woken after a rare moment of sleeping in. Aziraphale had been surprised to find himself waking, or being woken, rather, somewhere after eight. Crowley had shaken him gently at the shoulder and smiled warmly when he’d rolled over with a groggy look on his face. Now, they were dressed, and Crowley had asked about the shop. Ever polite, Aziraphale told him. The fact that he’d been rather put off about not having this conversation the night prior disappeared immediately; Crowley had remembered, they’d just been distracted.

Everything had been normal. Painfully normal, even. No one really noticed that the shop was under new ownership, save one or two whom had come in before trying to buy something. They foolishly assumed a new owner meant that they could finally purchase the book they sought for. Aziraphale had kindly explain that ‘her brother’ was on an extended vacation and had left explicit instructions. One particular customer was disgruntled but had suddenly come aware of some new engagement that he left the book hastily on the counter to flee. Aziraphale was rather proud of himself, in fact. For a moment, he’d even feared he would have to call for Crowley, but no such luck. Instead, things had gone rather smoothly. Only one customer had left him at any sort of odds—the American girl he’d never really noticed before. He’d noticed her, technically, but she felt more like a fixture in the shop sometimes than an actual patron.

She’d looked at him from the chair she always sat in, a different book his time, up and down. They didn’t talk much, not since the first time she’d asked if it was alright to just read a couple of things. Never to buy. She’d come by the first time some odd year and a half ago—Aziraphale hadn’t objected; she’d been so kind and considerate of the books, after all. She had spoken to him, though, and asked what had happened to the other one in such a crude manner, Aziraphale nearly laughed. He wouldn’t spill the secret, though, and told her just the same as he’d told everyone else.

“I didn’t know he had relatives,” she’d said.

“We live off in the country,” Aziraphale replied. “He ran off before he could get roped in with the farm, but Mother’s gone ill. He’s a better help than I ever was,” and he laughed for good measure.

The American girl nodded. “My name’s Elle, by the way,” she said.”

“Alexandria,” he replied without missing a beat, and even shook her hand.

He’d helped her find a book after that and noticed the part where the chair still looked dusty, even though she’d been sitting in it. He didn’t share that particular detail with Crowley, because it seemed a bit strange and out of the ordinary, like something he’d imagined. Perhaps the rush of the shopping had been enough to leave him in a rattled state, or something. Anything he could do to convince himself that Elle wasn’t a ghost, or whatever else could be lurking about the bookshop.

Crowley had hummed and turned him around halfway through the story, to work the buttons of his coat and ensure it fitted nicely. In return, Aziraphale popped the top two buttons of Crowley’s shirt, that he’d done up in some attempt to look proper for their day out. It was all very sweet and kind, and Crowley leaned in to kiss him. They kissed and kissed and kissed longer when Crowley’s hands dropped down to Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him in closer. Then, Aziraphale pushed away with a finger over Crowley’s lips to keep him at that distance.

“We were going to the park, weren’t we?” he asked.

“Of course. I’d offer a picnic if we weren’t due at the Ritz this evening,” Crowley said, then kissed Aziraphale’s finger before plucking it away.

“Just a walk will do, my dear. Oh, and perhaps we might feed the ducks.” Aziraphale had nearly pulled off in his excitement, towards the door and out into the hall, but Crowley stopped him for just a moment. There was a look of concern written all over his face that gave Aziraphale a moment to pause.

“You introduced yourself to her as Alexandria, was it?” Crowley asked.

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell her my name was Aziraphale—”

“No, no, I get that. I’d merely like to double check, you see. That you still prefer it one way, you know. How I call you.”

Aziraphale wore his own fond little smile, then, taking a peek and then glancing off to the side. “You’re very kind to worry, Crowley. I assure you; this is fine. If it starts to bother me, I’ll let you know,” and he patted his hand over Crowley’s chest, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt.

He’d chosen to wear a stark black shirt for the day, a loose tie hanging down his middle, and his jacket. His hair was left down around his shoulders, curling up at the ends—Aziraphale had seen him midway trying to straighten it and stopped him. They would both wear curls for the day, he’d decided, and Crowley was helpless to refuse him anything. There he was with half straightened hair and still looking fine as he was, with Aziraphale all the happier for it.

“You’re kind to think of me,” Aziraphale said as he stepped off. He grabbed Crowley’s glasses of the nightstand and slipped them over his eyes, smiling. He couldn’t _stop_ smiling. This felt so painfully like a date that he was positively bursting with happiness over it; he even deigned to think he could see some of that joy in Crowley’s eyes.

“Well, off then, shall we, angel? Ducks aren’t going to feed themselves.”

“Wait, you’ll need a coat!” Before Crowley could walk off too far.

Crowley stopped and turned, shrugging. “Haven’t got one.”

“Oh—surely, you have one,” Aziraphale frowned.

“Nope. Not a one.”

Aziraphale didn’t believe that for a second, but he did all that he could do in the moment. He stepped off to the closet and pulled it open, searching around for _his_ coat. One that probably wouldn’t fit so well anymore around the chest; it would be bigger on Crowley than necessary, but it was better than the nothing he was currently wearing. Crowley even dared looked pleased when Aziraphale handed over the coat, and he certainly didn’t object to slipping it on. It was a bit too big, but Crowley had always been a bit, well, scrawny for his height. Scrawny with all manners of sharp edges and bones, but it suited him. It suited Aziraphale to notice it all, as well.

Perhaps the most pleasant thing about a trip out to St. James’ Park was the trip itself. It was near enough that Crowley didn’t insist on driving, which saved Aziraphale the would-be-headache, which would have happened if he wasn’t a celestial being. It also saved Crowley from having to listen to his complaints, so it evened out. That, and it was a wonderfully bright day outside with a temperature just cool enough that the coats were necessary, but not so warm that they were too much for the activity. Of all the pleasant things, the final was how Aziraphale could reach out and attach himself to Crowley’s arm in the way a lady might if she were being escorted, and Aziraphale certainly felt like he was. The excuse was simple, too.

“I’m not used to the shoes,” he replied when Crowley gave him a strange look.

“Ah. Well enough, then,” Crowley nodded and looked straight ahead again.

There was no particular reason Aziraphale was wearing boots with heels, especially not tall heels. It was only because he liked them, and they went rather well with the rest of his ensemble. Though he was well enough to walk in them, a fact which Crowley most definitely, probably knew, it was still a good excuse to go with a grip around Crowley’s bicep. They looked something like a couple, Aziraphale even dared to think, when they passed by a shop window. And how he did look different himself, with his hair so long and the subtle changes. It suited him. Crowley seemed to like it, anyway, so there was no reason to dwell on it further. That was the part he’d been worried about, after all, if Crowley would like it. After six-thousand years getting to know one form, it wouldn’t have been too unthinkable for Crowley to decide this wasn’t for him.

He hadn’t, though. In all the ways that Crowley was, he flustered Aziraphale. There was always enough there that he could figure and guess and pretend that he knew, but never quite enough to really _read_ what was going on. Certainly, some of Crowley’s responses over the years had been far more than the friendship Aziraphale was so keen on brushing them off as. The touches were one thing, but the gazes were entirely different. Even behind the sunglasses, Aziraphale could always tell when Crowley had that look in his eyes—and he would be fool to call it anything but a loving look. _Love._ That was a terrifying four-letter word to think of in their close proximity with their day ahead. What, given the way the sun was shining, and people were all about enjoying the day like it was quite shaped up to be perfect.

Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley, who was doing his best to ignore the eyes of the humans staring at them and chanced a smile. Yes. Something about all of this was very much perfect.

“Do you think we could get ice cream?” Aziraphale suddenly wondered. He watched as two children ducked past them, each with a cone in their hand and laughing. He turned ever slightly to watch them go, until Crowley shifted him back forward.

“And spoil our dinner?” Crowley laughed. He’d seen the kids, too. More importantly, he’d seen the way Aziraphale had seen them with his bright eyes and pink cheeks.

“Please, there’s plenty of time. You don’t have to get any, but I’d like some. Well—” and Aziraphale seemed to realize what he was doing just as Crowley gave him a bit of a smirk, “that is. If you wouldn’t mind. I’d pay you back, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley said as if he might actually believe Aziraphale.

It felt quite like a date when Crowley placed the cone in his hand, smiling at him all wide and toothy. Aziraphale thanked him for it kindly, and they went back to walking. This time, it was Crowley who initiated the subtle little hand grab while Aziraphale worked eagerly at the vanilla. He’d almost not noticed, but Crowley squeezed just enough to pull Aziraphale closer, when a woman running with her dog passed behind them. That was probably a sign that he should be paying better attention. One look at Crowley said it was a sign, rather, that he should just let Crowley take the lead and eat his ice cream. He did just that, smiling to himself.

They’d gotten ice cream here or there between then and now, but it wasn’t quite the same. It wasn’t St. James’ Park where they were together; last time hadn’t ended so well when they were each quite respectively kidnapped. This felt like a redo. A make-up. There had been times between where they’d stopped by the park, as it was rather hard to avoid it, but not quite like this. Not for such a time and with ice cream, which tasted all the better for it. By the time they sat down on their favorite bench, the ice cream was nearly gone. Aziraphale had started crunching on the cone, mumbling something vaguely similar to affirmation when Crowley stepped off to get something to feed the ducks with.

At some point, it had become common knowledge that bread was not as good for ducks as one might have thought. Ever since, in order to avoid a sudden plunge in duck population at the pond, a vendor would make due, circling about and selling actual feed to people. He wasn’t around on rainy days, but it was not raining. Crowley would just have to find him, which left Aziraphale sitting on the bench with his ice cream cone to watch what happened before him. People always flocked when it was warm, and today was no different. Children were out running, couples flirting, dogs enjoying the air. Aziraphale enjoyed it all, too. He took another bite of his cone just as a ball landed innocently on the grass in front of him.

Aziraphale smiled at the little boy who ran up for it, who stopped and shied when he realized he was being watched. All of it was just because he was an angel, surely, when he nudged the ball towards the little boy and smiled. There was something to be said for the angelic aura Aziraphale just seemed to radiate, and it was made even better with the now halo of blonde around his face in tight curls. The boy warmed immediately and dashed forward to pick up his little ball. A moment later, presumably his mother came trotting up behind him with a worried look on her face.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” she said. “He knows better, he—”

“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale insisted, a wide smile on his face.

“Say thank you,” the mother urged down at her little boy. The little boy sniffed in return.

“Thank you, miss,” he said. Aziraphale stuttered a moment, because it was very easy to forget who he was with outward appearance but regained himself and still smiled brightly.

“You’re quite welcome,” he replied. “Do make sure no to lose it. It’s too lovely a day out for something like that.”

The little boy nodded and dashed off; his ball tight against his chest. He ran off to another lady, just across the pathway, and met her in a tight hug at the legs. The woman still standing near smiled on, then looked at Aziraphale with a nostalgic sort of look.

“He’s not usually so friendly with strangers,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you have children?”

“Oh, Heavens, no,” Aziraphale looked a bit strained at the question. He let his eyes wander off to where the boy and the woman were now tossing the ball gently back and forth; it did seem that he was still learning to play catch, and what a sight.

“Pardon me, then,” the lady laughed. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Do you want children?” she asked.

Before Aziraphale could answer a positive or a negative, something he was entirely unsure of himself, Crowley came sauntering back across the grass with a small little cup in his hand. There was a long moment where he looked a bit stunned at the scene before him, his eyes flitting between Aziraphale and the lady. The lady, ever calm, smiled and waved at him. Crowley waved back, without much tact for social things, as it were. It seemed the thing to do.

“Well, I won’t take up more of your time then, miss. Thank you, again,” the lady skirted away after that.

“Friend of yours?” Crowley asked, plopping down on the bench. Aziraphale laughed him off and recounted the events quickly.

By the time he’d told the story and watched Crowley’s face scrunch up a bit at the last part, he’d finished off the ice cream and the cone. He licked his fingers for good measure and shifted in his seat, quite pleased with the events so far. Crowley watched him, intently as he did, then reached out with his thumb to smudge a bit of cream from the side of his lips. Without even a moment’s hesitation, Crowley stuck his thumb in his mouth and pulled off with a pop—Aziraphale just stared. Ever true to his fashion, Crowley didn’t appear the least bit guilty for his actions. All he did was offer the little cup of feed to Aziraphale, because he got more enjoyment out of feeding the ducks than Crowley did.

There was a time where Crowley had enjoyed sitting on this very same bench and seeing what sort of problems he could cause for the humans. He remembered fondly some wonderful hot summer’s afternoon a year ago where a man had attempted to buy Aziraphale’s location from him and simply would not take no for an answer. On one of their few trips to the park, Aziraphale had pointed him out. Crowley had broken his oath of no magic just to ensure the man was tripped into the lake by a hoard of angry ducks. Aziraphale had laughed and laughed and thanked him, smiling in that way where the wrinkles went all the way up through his eyes. This time, Crowley would do no such thing. Instead, he leaned back against the bench with his arm over the back and his legs spread out to just. Watch. Watch as Aziraphale did exactly as he planned to do and fed the first duck that wandered over.

The ducks were always so friendly, because every other person out here could be the next government spy ready to spill their secrets to an aquatic bird. They were not spies, though they probably had a lot of secrets to share. Not currently, as all Aziraphale had was the feed. He was rather quite happy about it, leaning over his own knees to dribble it out in front of him. The way that his hair dangled down around him as well just made it a sight, and Crowley found it in himself to shift so he could see it better.

Once, Aziraphale had commented how much he loved Crowley’s eyes. More than once, to be precise, but Crowley wasn’t counting. He didn’t care for his eyes and often tried to keep them as human looking as possible. When he forgot himself, they would lose the whites and look truly otherworldly. Aziraphale’s eyes, though, in stark comparison were something altogether different, entirely. They were the brightest blue Crowley had ever seen, and always clear. With rounded pupils and perfect sight—even if he did wear those silly little readers. For confessions only, Crowley also thought they were rather nifty. The point being that Aziraphale was beautiful, and he’d always been beautiful. It wasn’t just the new look about him, though the long hair did seem to suit the shape of his face.

Crowley’s thoughts were rather rudely interrupted when the same woman who’d been there approached, with the boy, and nudged him forward. She did apologize for the sudden intrusion, giving Crowley the eye as she did—he was looking rather displeased, as it were, and the need to apologize had just bubbled up automatically. Said apology went accepted in silence, of course, and Crowley watched as Aziraphale let the little boy throw some of the feed. Smiling, as he did, and talking softly to him. Every second of the scene played out rather cute, dare Crowley admit. The little boy seemed quite taken with Aziraphale and beamed once he’d been patted on the head. After, his mother apologized again before leading him off by the hand. And then—

“You like kids, do you?” Crowley asked. Six-thousand years, and he’d never asked such a simple question.

“Yes, I believe I do,” Aziraphale responded, leaning into the back of the bench. It was just so positioned that he’d leaned in where Crowley’s arm was propped up on the back, which Crowley tried not to notice. “I’m not very good with them, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense. Kid was in love with you,” Crowley nodded in the direction the little family had disappeared in.

“Please. Are you jealous, my dear?” Aziraphale’s smirk read bastard, through and through.

“Of a kid? Hardly,” Crowley scoffed. “Just think you should give yourself more credit, is all.”

“Kids’ opinions of me have no effect on my skill in taking care of them,” Aziraphale corrected.

Crowley didn’t argue, just shifted a bit closer so any passerby might think he had his arm around a date instead of what was actually happening: nothing. A painful, quiet nothing that they filled with idle chatter for the time. Aziraphale had finished using the feed, and the ducks were happily snatching it up before waddling back to the water, just across the way. Which left nothing much more for them to do than watch. They could watch the ducks, they could watch the people, and Crowley could watch Aziraphale. He lit up whenever they sparked a certain node in conversation that delighted him particularly. His eyes would crease in their way, squinted up all with joy at their discussion. A discussion to which Crowley listened intently and replied when he must. Something about listening to Aziraphale rave about his newest reading material was fulfilling in every way that Crowley could think of, except a particular four-letter word that had him frozen in his own shoes.

To alleviate that tension in his jaw, Crowley suggested their next stop on this. Activity day. It wasn’t a date, so he wouldn’t call it a date. Even if his suggestion was particularly date-like, because he thought it would clear his mind to tease Aziraphale a little instead of sitting there and marveling over the curve of his cheeks, which he wasn’t doing. Aziraphale had certainly gone red at the suggestion, that they should pick out that outfit Crowley had been talking about next. Because Aziraphale would need to try it on. Because Crowley was not going to attempt to sneak into the dressing room with him under the guise of helpfulness to slip it off of him. Or anything. Nothing of the sort. He just really thought Aziraphale would look good in red lingerie. And what better time could possibly arise for them to buy some?

With a rather adorable red in the cheeks, Aziraphale agreed. There was only so much time to waste in St. James’ Park anyway, even if they did opt to take a quick walk around the trail. After that, they would take another walk to the particular shop Crowley had in mind. It wasn’t an adult shop, which Aziraphale had immediately assumed. There weren’t many reasons he could fathom that Crowley would know of a women’s intimates’ shop, but he did. Because they existed, apparently; Aziraphale hadn’t paid too much mind to certain things. Underwear things, to be specific.

Still, he followed Crowley into the shop like nothing was wrong, and he knew exactly what they were doing. He was too busy thinking about Crowley’s warning that the attendants were likely going to think they were a couple. Better to play a long at that. Of everything he was about to face, that was the least of Aziraphale’s concerns. Maybe he was currently _wearing_ a bra, but that didn’t mean he knew the first thing about them. Or even a size, because the attendant at the first shop had been ever so helpful. Everything else was simple enough, but he had a feeling that this type of clothing was going to be more difficult for sizing than, say, panties.

They’d been in the shop for no longer than thirteen seconds before a lovely young woman approached with a glint in her eye to greet them. The young woman’s name was Lynn, and Lynn gave them each exactly one look before she’d figured everything out and made the jump neither one of them were willing to make themselves. She was a smart girl like that; she had to be, working in this type of story. Every patron had a specific sort of want in mind, which would call for a specific sort of thing. Lynn had already pegged exactly what they were looking for: something a little sweet, a little innocent, that would leave a little to the imagination. Newlyweds, and she did smile at this assumption.

She wasn’t too far off.

“Looking for something particular today?” she asked.

Aziraphale’s face went immediately red.

“New to the whole thing,” Crowley supplied, pushing Aziraphale forward. “She’s quite nervous, but I’ve told her she can have anything she wants. My treat, after all.”

Lynn smiled. “Honeymoon?”

“In two weeks,” Crowley replied without a beat. “Haven’t had a shot off work in ages. Took them long enough to agree to it, too. Even invited the boss to the wedding, but that didn’t earn me any favor.”

Lynn laughed, and she meant it.

“Have you anything in mind, then? I’m more than happy to help with the searching,” Lynn offered.

“I’ve—well, I’ve never,” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say. _This_ was not what he’d been expecting. Lynn gave him a sympathetic smile and took him by the hand anyway.

“Not a problem. We’ll find something. Do you have any preferences, mister…?”

“Crowley,” he said, waving them off. “Not a one. Though, I do prefer the color red, if you please.”

Aziraphale shot him a look that screamed for help, but Crowley was having none of it. In fact, Crowley was having _fun._ Eventually, he knew Aziraphale would too. It was hard for Aziraphale to resist any sort of indulgence, and if anything qualified for indulgence, it was certainly overly priced and fancy underwear. Crowley had an appreciation for the finer things, though, and the bit of evil that always seemed to go along with them. One didn’t have to be any sort of proper demon, and he wasn’t, to have an appreciation for a mundane and lazy evil. It was his specialty.

He browsed for a bit on his own, poking through the different options, but nothing really stuck out enough that he felt it necessary to intrude on the impromptu appointment. Whatever this was, it was an indulgence of his, but it was more important that Aziraphale feel comfortable and happy about it. Which meant that he would stay out of it unless his presence was requested, and if they left with nothing—he hoped Aziraphale knew that would be alright. Surely, he must have. The whole thing had started as an only half-serious joke. Either way, Crowley eventually found himself a comfortable place to sit and pulled out his phone. He could mind himself long enough and keep an eye on the clock—they did have a reservation. One he’d been looking forward to.

In the background, it had all started with fitting. Aziraphale didn’t _know_ anything about size, shape, fit—he’d never had to. He didn’t think he would have to, but it was becoming clear to him quickly that this presentation was going to have to present as permanent for the time. A few days like this wouldn’t be enough to get anyone’s nose off of them. It would have to be years. Which meant he would have to learn. And, like many things, Aziraphale was good at learning. He enjoyed it. So, he asked questions when Lynn brought him back different selections. He wanted to know the names of the styles, the benefits, and even just her personal opinion. With that, and of course the matter of sizing, it was down to just the personal opinions.

Not everything was red, because Aziraphale was going to be spiteful about this. If Crowley said he could have whatever he wanted, he was going to use that as an excuse to get whatever he wanted. There would, of course, be something with Crowley in mind. There would be a few things, because by the time Aziraphale had tried on a rather striking bra that was more straps than bra, he was drowning in thoughts about what Crowley would think. Lynn must have read that a mile away, as she did _ask_ if she should go and retrieve Mister Crowley. Nothing wrong with inviting a husband in to see his wife, after all. Aziraphale had stuttered out a no, and Lynn understood something about embarrassment because they must be one of those proper couples.

Aziraphale told her she didn’t know the half of it.

The final piece was something Lynn specifically suggested, which just happened to be a part of their higher-end line. Aziraphale assured her that it would be no problem—it might be, eventually, but for now they had the money to spend. It was a lovely chiffon robe, a dark wine red with lace cuffs and a ribbon tie. There were slits along the side, nearly up to the waist. The robe being a bit longer made the slits rather scandalous, Aziraphale thought, and he loved the soft thing all the more for it. He didn’t even think twice before deciding on it, as well. Then, he redressed.

He and Lynn took the things to the counter in a haste that Crowley hadn’t noticed immediately. He didn’t play games on his phone, Crowley. Mobile games were rather not in his line of understanding. Instead, he filled his time with online articles and Twitter. He’d invented Twitter, after all. A pleasant little place where people could vent their frustrations out on each other. A little magic here or there had made him a rather popular follow, even if he didn’t post very often. He liked the number, anyway. But even Twitter couldn’t keep his attention for long. Once the phone was stashed, he made his way up to the counter.

“Do I not get to see anything, angel?” he asked.

“It’ll be a surprise, dear,” Aziraphale told him.

Lynn was all beaming ear to ear by the time she’d finished ringing, and Crowley had forked over his arm to match the leg he’d given at the previous shop. The previous day. He didn’t mind so much, though, because Aziraphale was happy. That’s all that really mattered, in the long run. Even if he never got to see anything in that bag; he was proud enough that Aziraphale had taken to this as well as he did and bought something.

“There you are,” Lynn handed over the bags. There were three of them. “Do have a wonderful day.”

Then, they were off. The day was still bright, even as it was getting later. They had a rather early reservation. Instead of a usual time in the evening, say eight or so, it was for five-thirty. Which would provide them just enough time to return to the flat and drop the bags before immediately going to the Ritz, to which they would walk. Parking there was dreadful and absolutely impossible—that, and the constant drop of cabs picking up and dropping off. Walking was easier, and it gave plenty more time for idle things they probably had no business doing. The touching, the glancing, the obviously overt staring. All of it was simply nice, as it were, and could only be done in true fashion while walking. Crowley may have been a reckless driver, but he did keep his eyes forward. Most of the time, anyway.

Aziraphale stayed on the street while Crowley made a quick run to drop the bags off. He didn’t even enter the flat, just dropped the bags right inside the door and locked up again. They walked to the Ritz after that, doing the touching and the glancing and the staring. It all seemed rather proper, because someone had to appreciate the way Crowley looked in the low light of an early evening. Aziraphale was more than happy to take up that mantle, seeing as how he was the only one close enough to do it properly. Every sharp angle of his face was shown in just the right manner in this kind of light. One might even think he was rather handsome. Aziraphale certainly did. Beautiful was another word, one that Crowley wouldn’t hear. Handsome downplayed him a bit too much, though. Aziraphale had always thought so.

“Should be under Crowley,” Crowley said in response to the reservation. Aziraphale nearly jerked as sound returned to him, and he stopped staring so openly.

The Ritz was open and alive with the sound of chattering and clinking glasses. Everything was alight, the piano played softly in the background, and Aziraphale heard Crowley confirm a table for two. The very table they’d been at when the Apocalypse disappeared. Where Crowley asked him to move in. Where they had toasted to the world and everything that came after. Aziraphale felt a swelling in his chest as they were led to it, almost nervous to sit down. But they were seated, in the same places as before, and Crowley ordered a bottle of wine that Aziraphale didn’t hear. It had been some time since he was this nervous around Crowley. Some time indeed.

Crowley mentioned a first course, to which Aziraphale just hummed along in agreement. Something about how Crowley had been saving his appetite for this event and though they should go all out. Aziraphale just agreed. Just agreed and stared blankly at the tablecloth and thought things that. Frightened him. In the way that one might look into the dark and know, without a doubt, nothing was in it, but still wonder. When he looked at Crowley, he saw a demon. Crowley was a demon. That was the darkness, and there was nothing there. At least. There shouldn’t be. That was the wondering. When Aziraphale looked at a demon and saw something entirely different. Demons weren’t supposed to be able to love, and maybe they couldn’t. Maybe Crowley wasn’t a very good demon. Maybe Aziraphale was an even worse angel.

There was something they needed to talk about, and it was holed up in Aziraphale’s throat like a cough he couldn’t shake. If they didn’t talk about it, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Everything was the wondering in the dark where they were standing. All of it was confusion. They ate together, they lived together, they worked together. They shared things together that friends didn’t share, like a meal or the bed. They slept together. Crowley looked at him with those eyes and held him gently. Never meant to hurt him. Never had, not really. No. Because he made him cocoa in the morning without being asked and drove him to the shop before going about his own day. When Aziraphale talked, he listened. He listened so intently it was as if there was nothing more in the world. The topic of conversation never mattered. Crowley listened.

Maybe Crowley yelled sometimes, at his plants and at drivers, even at Aziraphale. Maybe he slept too late and burned garlic sometimes. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but Aziraphale couldn’t expect anything of Crowley he couldn’t expect of himself. Perfection was nowhere on that list, because he was incorrigible at the worst of times. If it wasn’t one thing to worry about, it was another. Always worrying, fretting, reading, eating—something. Something, something, something, that Crowley never took to mentioning and just. Smiled in his way. Always with that four-letter word just on the tip of someone’s tongue, but never the nerve to say it. What was standing in their way, now? It couldn’t possibly be Heaven or Hell. Not for the moment, anyway.

Or it was simply the fact that Aziraphale was wrong, that he’d misjudged the whole ordeal. Crowley didn’t look at him the way he thought he did. Living together was a matter of convenience. Sleeping together was a matter of temptation. Crowley was a demon. It was what he did.

When the wine came, Aziraphale gulped the first glass down faster than he ought, but it was a sweet red wine that tickled in his throat on the way down. When Crowley didn’t refill his glass, he refilled it himself and sipped a bit slower this time, watching Crowley watch him. Crowley was staring with his eyebrows up, leaning into his hand with such a vaguely bewildered but impressed glance, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Aziraphale sipped a little slower.

“You know,” Crowley started, “I had a thought you weren’t listening, but when you let me order that veal sweetbread, I knew you weren’t.”

Aziraphale’s nose crinkled up. “Wish I had been. Why did you order that?”

“To see if you were listening. Thought that point was made.”

“Yes, well,” and he shifted in his chair. “You didn’t have to put me out like this to prove it.”

Crowley only smiled at him and rubbed at his chin. Only, a moment later when the waiter arrived, he presented what Crowley had actually ordered. Aziraphale was given a cup of tea, and a plate of scallops and eel was set out between the two. Crowley was grinning wickedly, taking moment to curl his own hair behind his ear and clear his vision entirely, so he could watch the way Aziraphale’s face lit up in such a wondrous and surprised way. His eyes creased and cheeks were full.

“Oh, you remembered,” Aziraphale said. He was already unfurling his napkin to press it out in his lap. “This is my favorite.”

“How could I not remember?” Crowley asked. He reached for the plate first, to pluck a scallop on the end of his fork and hold it out for Aziraphale to try.

It gave Aziraphale pause, but he ate it from Crowley’s fork anyway. Friends fed each other. Friends ate off each other’s plates. Surely, anyway. It wouldn’t stop Aziraphale if they didn’t, because the food was positively scrumptious. So much so, in fact, that there was no way he could eat it on his own. Next, from Crowley’s fingers he plucked the whole fork before stabbing one of the scallops in turn. When he presented it to Crowley, Crowley didn’t stutter or wait about it. He ate it and made a cute little show of his tongue in the process. Aziraphale bit into his lip at the sight.

They really, really needed to talk. The question remained only if this was the right time, though there never seemed to be much of a right time. Maybe waiting for the right time was why it was taking them so long, because this wasn’t the sort of conversation that popped up with neon signs shouting that it was ready to be had. There was no oven timer on this conversation to tell you it was heated up and ready to cook. This was just them, and it was awkward, because it was shrouded in an air of fear. Aziraphale _liked_ what they had together. He liked the friendship and the unknown where they could still hold hands and kiss one another. It was a nice and neat little strangeness that was all them. Asking these questions might ruin that.

A chance did remain that it might _improve_ what they had, but Aziraphale wasn’t particularly good at maths. He could do what arithmetic was required for inventory, but this was sounding more and more like a probability question where he hadn’t been given all the variables. Either way, it wasn’t a problem he really thought he could solve, so he didn’t know his chances either way. There could be such a slim chance of improvement that there was no sense in even asking Crowley anything. Improvement would be ideal, though, Aziraphale thought. Nothing changing would be alright. Something told him he had a better shot of ruining everything they’d built, though, and that left him nervous and a bit sweaty around the collar.

He sipped at the wine. They both shared the first course plate rather evenly, which was unusual. Crowley didn’t eat at the best of times, and he certainly would prefer to just let Aziraphale have his fill. It would have been silly to fill on scallops when the waiter was around the corner to ask about an entree order where Aziraphale got the lobster and Crowley ordered the lamb. Aziraphale was blinking all in confusion now, because the last time Crowley had ordered a meal and not just another bottle of wine had been, well, years ago. Even their last visit to the Ritz after their survival, he had not eaten anything.

“Hungry?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not particularly,” Crowley responded. He swishes his wine around in his glass before downing it in a gulp. Then, he refilled them both while Aziraphale sipped on the tea.

“Surely you must be. You’ve ordered.”

“Thought I’d try it. It’s been awhile, and last time I had sea bass.” Crowley was drawing circles on the tablecloth.

“That was years ago,” Aziraphale mused.

Crowley agreed with a vacant nod. Of the two of them, it was Crowley who preferred to think the least. Thinking about overly important things, that was, because he did enjoy thinking when imagination was involved. Everything was just not his style. Even if he’d been thinking a lot over the past two years; more than he preferred. Always, thinking made things complicated. He didn’t like complicated. Complicated turned into a mess, and he inevitably had to clean those messes up—even and especially if they were messes of his own making. This was a mess he didn’t want to make, and he did not want to pick it up. Better there be no mess.

Without even realizing, they were both sitting awkwardly at the same table, in the same boat, staring at each other while poking at their meals.

Crowley finished first, as usual, and sipped on his wine while Aziraphale ate. He didn’t need to be as careful about the wine as he would have had to be if he’d driven them here, which made the perfect excuse to pour himself another glass. Anyone else might have hated this part of the meal: the long dreadful silence while Aziraphale slowly just gorged himself on whatever it was he had at the time—the lobster, currently. But. Crowley wasn’t anyone else. Crowley was Crowley, and the assurance that Aziraphale was enjoying their time together was breathtaking. It certainly fueled a fire that the wine was doing no good in putting out. Nor would it, the more that Crowley drank, so he paced himself. Or. Tried to pace himself.

“That was positively scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, wiping his lips with the napkin.

“Looked like you enjoyed it.”

“Truly, I did. And yours, dear?”

“Wonderful, as always.”

“Shall we get dessert?” Aziraphale looked hopeful.

Crowley gave a vague sort of noise in response, one that sounded like a negative. They wouldn’t be getting dessert. Which. Alright. If Crowley was going to pay, he certainly had a right to draw the line. While that meant no dessert, Aziraphale did try not to look put out. Only for a moment. After that moment was up, his eyes opened wide as the waiter returned with the final course of the evening—dessert. Aziraphale looked between the plate and Crowley, then back at the plate. Back at Crowley, who was smirking all too proud of himself, and drawing circles on the tablecloth again.

“You weren’t listening when we first sat down,” Crowley said. “Thought I’d have some fun with it. You have to order this at the beginning—”

“Yes, I know how it works. I just,” Aziraphale sighed, positively touched by the action. “Thank you.”

“It’s just dessert, angel. No need to get teary eyed.”

Except it wasn’t just dessert. It was Crêpes Suzette; the most expensive dessert Crowley could’ve opted to get. And, he was right, he would’ve had to order it at the beginning of their meal. They needed the time to prepare it properly, and they always did. Aziraphale didn’t even have to take the first bite, because Crowley was feeding him again. This was almost scandalously well done, the night. The meal. The piano music in the background. As the night ticked on, he was beginning to lose himself to the idea that this was a date and not just a day out. They’d had plenty of days out that didn’t end with crêpes and wine.

If the right time did exist, there would never be a better time than this. The dessert was delicious, just the right bit amount of crunch and cream. Everything Aziraphale remembered it was. But it paled in comparison to Crowley. Everything did, really.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t continue.

“Yes?”

Aziraphale just wrung his hands together, looking more nervous with each passing second.

“Angel, I know the sound of my name is sweet, but I do hope you were going to say something more than it.”

“Oh, you—” Aziraphale looked at him, “always joking, you. I just—oh, I don’t know,” he sighed and leaned forward onto the table, onto his elbows which was something he never did. Crowley straightened up.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong. Everything is far too perfect to be wrong, and maybe that’s the problem.”

“I could have the waiter spill a glass of wine on you, if that would improve the evening,” Crowley said with a deadpan look across his face. Aziraphale shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted and sad.

“I think we need to talk,” Aziraphale said. It could wait until after dessert, though, and they both agreed to that in silence.

It left a rather sour mood, but they finished dessert, and it tasted as good as it could in the moment. Crowley paid for their meal after and left a generous tip under the assumption they wouldn’t be returning for some time. Like a gentleman, he took Aziraphale’s hand and brought him out of the chair, and when they left the restaurant, did not let go. Outside, where evening had officially fallen and their walk back would be in the dark, he was almost afraid to let go. If holding hands on the way to the flat would be their last moment in a fantasy of their own making, then so be it. Neither of them would mind. Both of them were looking forward to the end.

So much so, that neither one of them was hastily approaching it. When they arrived back at the flat, Aziraphale insisted he needed time to sort through his new clothing and get things put away—and Crowley wasn’t allowed to look, because that would ruin the element of surprise, he still had over him. Not that Crowley ever made it a habit to sort through Aziraphale’s undergarments; he really didn’t. It was the new excuse to keep them separated instead. Crowley was confined to the lounge while Aziraphale stole up the bedroom to work through the intimates.

There was a long time where Aziraphale thought the only thing he’d ever fear as he did this was Heaven and the angels. None of them were particularly kind, and they weren’t kind to particularly Aziraphale. He remembered all of their words as if he’d heard them spoken only days ago, which meant the hurt was still fresh. And still, none of it compared to the way his fingers were trembling at the thought of approaching Crowley. The right time was gone, it was past. He should have asked over the crêpes, but he’d been too caught up in the taste and his own fear to get over himself and just. Ask. Did Crowley love him? Were they anything? Would they ever _be_ anything? Or was this all a pretty little story of their own devising that ended the moment someone brought it up.

He wished, for a moment, that Crowley would bring it up. But Crowley would never bring it up, and Aziraphale had seen to that quite diligently over their time together. If Crowley was even afraid of furthering this was a whole other question, but Aziraphale certainly was. Terrified enough to keep his mouth shut ever longer, even if this confusion might end them both one day. It was better to play along, he decided, than potentially ruin something he’d come to rely on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> That was CERTAINLY not a talk, was it?  
>   
> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
>   
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town, but what am I doing? I'm writing babbey because that's just what I do. I've eaten a lot of pizza and a lot of cheesesticks, but that's just what you do out here.
> 
> Anyway. Crowley gets a new plant, be sure to google so u can bask at generic houseplants with me. And we are nearly to the big actual point of this fic--kids. I apparently invented slowburn so deal with the slownness. Enjoy! 𓆏

The hour was nearly nine when Crowley pushed into the bedroom without so much as a knock, and why should he? It was his bedroom, or it had been before they started _sharing._ That didn’t mean Aziraphale had any business to lock him out of it. Especially not if all he was doing was sorting clothes, but that wasn’t what he was doing when Crowley finally found the courage to burst in as he did. Aziraphale was just sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands folded and a strange look on his face. Even when the door hit the wall, he hadn’t even budged. Just curled his hair behind his ear and stared over his fingers. He hadn’t even changed for the evening, still wearing the little ruffled coat and all.

Crowley regarded him, for the moment, with a variety of things that spun past his vision faster than he could count. First, he’d been angry that Aziraphale had spent so much time locked up in here without so much as an explanation beyond the clothes. Then, he was surprised to find him in such a horrid looking state. Finally, there was sympathy. Maybe. Whatever was going on had been enough to leave Aziraphale so caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even though to notice when he was no longer alone. Crowley sighed.

He hung up Aziraphale’s coat in the closet, the one he’d borrowed for the day, and then shrugged off his loose tie and shirt. The pants went next, and given the temperature, he actually opted to change into sleep clothes. Given his usual taste for luxury, it had been jarring the first time Aziraphale learned he slept in flannel pants and a t-shirt, and only during the colder months. He didn’t keep heat well; whether that was the snake part or the skinny part was left to be decided. He liked the pants, worn as they were, because they had a rather silly pattern of snakes with hats. The t-shirt was an old Queen shirt he’d gotten at a concert some long, long time ago. Then, the glasses went on the nightstand, and he went to sit beside Aziraphale.

The particular bed frame he had made these sit-downs very easy. There was space to do it without hanging awkwardly off the end of the bed, and Crowley, being thin enough, had space to cross his legs up on it too and dangle his arms over the edge. Aziraphale still hadn’t noticed him, but that was alright—he was sorting through the words he would need to say. Saying was harder than thinking. Thinking was harder than doing nothing. And doing nothing wasn’t an option anymore.

“What’s on your mind, angel?” Crowley finally said after a long three minutes had passed.

Aziraphale jerked and looked at him, took in his new attire, and sniffed. “I didn’t hear you enter.”

“I realized, but here I am. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing is on my mind. Whatever makes you think there’s something on my mind?”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and fought back the urge to groan. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re thinking too hard. Steam’s practically rolling out your ears.”

“It is not.”

“Just tell me what’s going on. You’ve been all off since we had dessert, and I won’t accept bad food as an excuse. You don’t think anyone thing is bad.”

“Well, I don’t care for sweetbread—”

“We didn’t _have_ sweetbread, angel. Please, for God’s—for Satan—” Crowley grumbled and dropped his chin into his hands. “For somebody’s sake, you will just talk to me? Or am I really that unworthy of you that you would ignore me like this?”

Aziraphale hadn’t seen it like that and seeing it like that suddenly made for a pang in his chest of hurt. He was unintentionally hurting Crowley in all of his brooding, which was unforgivable. None of it made the following words any easier: ‘I love you’. So, he didn’t say them. He groaned and rolled up onto his feet to pace about the bedroom with his hands folded behind his back. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to make all manner of excuses. Crowley wouldn’t buy a single one of them, though, because he was good at picking out lies. It was what he did, being a demon and all. Being good at lying meant he was good at catching others in their lies, and Aziraphale was bad at lying. That left one rather unsavory option. The truth. If only he knew how to _say_ it.

He could feel Crowley’s eyes boring into him as he paced. Every passing second was one more second, he was letting Crowley believe something was wrong, and what was wrong was going in intensity. Possibilities were flooding the open air between them, and Crowley could only guess at which one it was. It all ended with something specifically about him and Aziraphale’s unhappiness. That they were somehow related. Inevitably related. Ineffably related. Crowley was frowning. Frowning right into the crease of Aziraphale’s coat as he paced back and forth. Until he finally came to a stop, biting his bottom lip.

“If I’ve done something—” Crowley started, but Aziraphale held up his hands and shook his head.

“No! No, no—Heaven’s, Crowley, no. You’ve done _good_ , I think. And don’t give me that look,” Aziraphale pointed when Crowley’s nose scrunched up. “I mean good for me, _to_ me, rather. Too good.”

“I see,” Crowley blinked.

Aziraphale took his seat again beside Crowley, fidgeting with darting eyes. “I don’t know how to say it,” he admitted, nothing more than a whisper.

“Just say it, angel. You don’t have to be so caught up with the particulars. Nothing you say would offend me.”

“You _say_ that, but you don’t know what I’ve got to tell you. And—I’m fairly sure being called nice offends you.”

Crowley cracked a smile, which meant Aziraphale could too. There was still tension between thick as fog, but at least they were smiling. That made it a bit easier to breathe and decide on the precise wording he was going to use. No matter what he did, they would have this talk. They had to. He couldn’t stand another moment of not knowing the answers he sought. Another moment might spell the end of the world, again, and only this time it would surely happen. Aziraphale would be the one to cause it in a sudden explosion from the pressure building up in his chest from where—he just had to know. When he looked at Crowley and couldn’t find answers, it meant he had to ask. It was truly the only way. With nowhere else for the energy to go, Aziraphale squeezed his fists together.

“I need to know what we are!” he eventually blurted, shouted even, all manner of shakes going through his body. Just thinking about it had worked him up to the point of trembling, and all was left was a strangely worded comment. Crowley was looking at him.

“What we are? As in, like, what?” he had this dumb look on his face. Aziraphale sighed.

“As in _we_ , Crowley. As in how do you think of me? As in what does it all mean, the things that you do for me?”

Crowley blinked and suddenly had to look away, his face a hot red. _That_ was certainly not the reaction Aziraphale had expected. He wasn’t sure how to take it, either. If that was a good thing or a bad thing or something in the middle. Selfishly, he was hoping for a good thing. This question couldn’t be the end of them, it just couldn’t. But the long silence between them was leaving him to think that it would be the end. That the red had been angry, not embarrassed. Every bad thought—and then Crowley was grabbing his hand and squeezing it with all the nervousness he could muster.

“I think highly of you,” Crowley muttered, strained because the words weren’t right. “I admire you, even.”

Aziraphale looked at him.

“You’re—well, you’re. Hell, I don’t know,” Crowley sighed and slouched forward. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just say it. You won’t offend,” Aziraphale said in as soft a voice he’d ever mustered. He squeezed Crowley’s hand back.

“I’d be rather put out to see you leave, if you’d ever had a mind to. I invited you to stay here because I _wanted_ you to stay. Everything else that followed—I wanted all of that too.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind to do things you don’t want to do.”

“I _want_ you,” Crowley said, and he meant it. “I wouldn’t have done any of it if I didn’t want you.”

“And what does that mean?” Aziraphale was whispering now. His hand was beginning to ache, but neither of them pulled away.

Crowley pressed his lips together in a tight line and said nothing. All at once, he ripped away and jumped to his feet, whirling around to regard Aziraphale with a wide look like he was upset. Like whatever Aziraphale had just asked him was the worst thing that he could’ve said, and then it started. The big yellow eyes, the scales popping up along Crowley’s neck where they had no business being, not when he was in normal state of mind.

“I shouldn’t say it,” he hissed out. “It’s not _right._ You’re an angel. I’m a demon. A _demon—_ don’t you know that? Unforgivable, irredeemable, worthless vermin. I’m no good for you. The fact that I’ve gotten away with this much is just? It’s—it’s ridiculous! How did it come to this?”

Aziraphale just. Looked. Like he was ready to cry.

Crowley dropped to the ground in front of him and grabbed his hands. “I shouldn’t say it. If I say it, you’ll never find someone better.”

“I don’t _want_ anyone better,” Aziraphale whispered. “If I didn’t _want_ to be here, I would’ve left.” He pulled his hands back so he could take Crowley’s hands in them. “Please, tell me. I need to hear it.”

“You would really waste everything for a demon?”

“I would throw away _everything_ for _you_ ,” Aziraphale rephrased.

Crowley straightened up, his fingers curled around Aziraphale’s wrists, and he surged forward until their faces were inches apart. Then, with all the passion he could find, and what passion Crowley had always had for the little things like this, especially when they were about Aziraphale. From the fit of his clothes to how he preferred his cocoa. Even the proper hairbrush and what scents he liked in the bathtub—his cologne.

“Angel, I love you,” Crowley said. “I have loved you for _thousands_ of years, and I’ll—I’ll never stop, even if you can’t stand my presence any longer.”

“I love you too, Crowley.” Just the same. Just as simple. Just as stupid—this love.

Crowley kissed him then, hard, and like he meant the world with it. In return, Aziraphale dropped his hands from Crowley’s face to wrap them around his neck instead and pull him ever closer, until he had no choice but to press a knee between Aziraphale’s thighs and lean into him more, more. Always more. Never enough. He was desperate for anything of Aziraphale he could have, to claim it and call it his own. And in the same breath, he would give everything that he was in return. Anything Aziraphale would ask, he would do it. He would give him anything. Everything. All of it at once into a tongue deep kiss that had them both falling back on the bed, finally to part just so Crowley could smooth his hair out of his face and look at him.

“Thousands of years, hm?” Aziraphale asked, a breathless laugh on his lips.

“All of them, angel. All six of them,” he said, thinking back to the first time he had ever laid eyes on Aziraphale with those wings and absolutely no flaming sword.

“You’re everything,” Aziraphale told him, and pulled him down for another kiss. This one was softer, sweeter, where Crowley’s hands traveled down his front and over the curve of his breasts, down to rest on his waist as he pushed closer.

It was so late, and Aziraphale was so warm. Still in his day clothes, too, so Crowley couldn’t help the sudden pang of helpfulness to get him out of this outfit. He’d never had the proper privilege of seeing Aziraphale in a true state of undress, not like this. He was curious. He wanted to know. And Aziraphale didn’t protest when he started pushing at his coat and unbuttoning him. Until time came to get it over his shoulders, and then the kissing stopped and Aziraphale pushed him back, his face all red and eyes off to the side.

“Crowley—I don’t—”

“We don’t have to,” Crowley assured. “You probably don’t want to sleep in your nice outfit here, though, do you?”

Aziraphale breathed hard through his nose. “You truly mean just to undress me?” like it was a marvel.

Crowley nodded, all the same. Maybe it would’ve been nice to go father, but if Aziraphale didn’t want to, he wouldn’t press. It wasn’t that important, because they _loved_ each other. Crowley could say it. The weight of a lifetime just lifted from his shoulders, and suddenly everything was alright. Hell could burst through the door right now, and Crowley wouldn’t even pay a mind its way. All he could see was Aziraphale, Aziraphale, and Aziraphale. Aziraphale and the way that he smiled with red cheeks and beautiful blue eyes.

“Up, then,” Aziraphale gestured, “and you can undress me.”

Crowley was up and off him in a second, pulling him up by his hands. The little coat came off immediately, left on the bed, and Crowley finished unbuttoning the blouse. That went next, which left Aziraphale standing there in his slacks and a white bra. Staring was a difficult thing to not do, but Crowley managed as he reached down to work away Aziraphale’s belt, then the slacks. His shoes had been left at the door, so there was nothing stopping him from stepping out of the slacks when they pooled at his ankles. Which left him in his underwear. The panties were also a solid white, save the little lace cut outs on either side. Crowley sucked in a breath.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, “my night shirt?”

“Right,” and Crowley snapped himself back into reality to grab the shirt off the bed.

He rounded back and draped the shirt over his arm when Aziraphale turned around. He wrapped his arms around himself, Aziraphale did, and waited for Crowley to get the idea. Crowley did, after a moment of staring, and reached forward to unhook each clasp of his bra. Until it slipped right off his shoulders and onto the floor in front. Then, Crowley helped Aziraphale into the night shirt, for his own personal indulgent desires. The second it was down, Aziraphale turned and fell into him with his face right up against his neck. He breathed a shuddering breath, and then Crowley could feel the prickling wetness of it all just coming down.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said. “I love you.”

Crowley squeezed him in a tight hug. “I love you, too, angel,” he breathed into his hair. “I need you to know I’ve always loved you, no matter how you looked.”

Aziraphale thought it was funny that he needed to make the distinction, but his laugh sounded more like a sob. All the same, he appreciated it, because that did sound very much like something he would assume. That Crowley’s love was only for a form, and it was this form, one that he would shed eventually. Yes, that certainly sounded like him. Crowley just held him all the tighter for it, pressing a kiss to his head and rubbing his back. He cared so much, too much, and it did nothing but make Aziraphale feel warm.

“What does this mean, then?” Aziraphale eventually managed, when he found it in him to pull back. He scrubbed at his face, but Crowley took his hands and wiped his eyes for him.

“It could mean anything, if I were being honest. What do you want it to mean?”

“Whatever it takes to know you’ll never leave me.” Aziraphale was being petulant, he knew.

Crowley smiled at him. “I wouldn’t want to face the consequences of that. You’re looking for a title, then? What do you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Partners? That’s pretty neutral, I think. We could get fancy and say significant other, though that’s quite a lot on the tongue.” His forked tongue slipped out for emphasis. “We could do boyfriends, boyfriend and girlfriend—girlfriends, even, if you’re feeling it. I don’t really think it matters.”

“Well, I’d like to say _something_. It feels strange not to.”

“We could always just agree with whatever the humans come up with. Seems to be doing quite well so far, Misses Crowley,” he joked, bowed, and took Aziraphale’s hand when he straightened to pull him back in.

“Oh, do stop that.” Aziraphale’s face was red.

“Mates?” Crowley laughed. “Lovers is an option,” and he was pulling him back towards his side of the bed. “Husbands, maybe, but we aren’t exactly married. Any variation thereof, too.”

“Could be,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley just shrugged. “It’s a little human of us, don’t you think? Not as though a marriage certificate lasts for eternity. God probably doesn’t want to see that either.”

“I suppose. Hard to tell what She’s thinking.” Aziraphale sat down on the side of the bed. It was best not to speculate. Even after all this time and all these questions, Aziraphale believed that.

“Besides, we’d have to have proper names for that. If you went around being Misses Crowley, you couldn’t very well call me that,” and Crowley eyed him as he rounded the bed to sit on his side. “You’d call me Anthony, would you?”

Aziraphale looked put off by that suggestion.

“Suppose I could be Mister Fell,” Crowley said as he laid back on the pillows. “I’d have to call you Alexandria, or something then. Would that make your other name Alexander?” he looked quite curious at the idea.

“Oh, please. I don’t think so.”

“Alexander something Fell, hm? And you make fun of Anthony.”

“I do not make fun of it. It just sounds different. I like Crowley. It suits you.”

They settled in after that, in the bed and under the sheets. Crowley pulled up the extra quilt from the end of the bed, because he was cold and wouldn’t admit it. Then, something peculiar happened. Something that didn’t _normally_ happen. The lights were to be turned off, sure, but Aziraphale’s lamp was also off. He hadn’t grabbed his book to read for the evening. Instead, once Crowley had settled, Aziraphale laid right in beside him as close as he could manage. The instinctual response had been for Crowley to raise his arm and wrap it around Aziraphale’s shoulder, and only ten seconds later did he realize that Aziraphale was laying on his chest with closed eyes and a rather pleased smile.

There was time left in the evening to ask what he was doing. Normally, he read. If he felt this night was meant for sleeping, then that was fine with Crowley. Preferable, even, because it meant he got to roll onto his side and tangle their legs together. To keep Aziraphale as close as he could manage. All of it was pleasantly warm and fiendishly happy. Whatever this official business was, Crowley liked it. He wanted to hold onto it for a long and dear bit of time.

Come Monday, the shop was just as empty as it had ever been. Save Elle, who had arrived sometime directly after noon. She offered Aziraphale—Alexandria, in good company—a Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with hot black tea, two sugars. Just as he liked, though he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever told her. She was in the shop so often; it was well enough she could have overheard him at some point. There had been time and time again Crowley had stopped by with the same order. Besides, it was good, and there was no time to spare for anything other than that perfect little fact.

Elle asked for a recommendation when she sat down on her dusty chair, and Aziraphale offered her a novel by one Terry Pratchett. She looked over it, front and back, before settling against the back of the chair and deciding it was certainly worth her time. Then, just before she turned the page, she nodded towards the front door before it had even opened. Before the bell even rang. Aziraphale did follow her gaze and watch as the door then did open, ring the bell, and a father stepped through holding a girl no more than five up in his arms. Whereas he might have had a moment to dread this, because this most surely meant they were looking for something, Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. He welcomed them into the shop.

When he turned back to Elle, she was already two chapters deep into the book. Aziraphale didn’t question that, either, because he, too, was a bit of a fast reader. He stepped away, then, under the guise of some type of work that a bookshop owner was supposed to do. Inventory only worked as an excuse for so long, but he could organize some titles, at least. Might, however, he find better use of his time brewing tea and having a cup. It was just hedging on afternoon, so tea seemed a reasonable thing to do at the hour. No one would miss him if he parked in the back of the shop for a moment, just to start the tea, at least. He would be back around to tell someone off if need be, but the tea first. Which, once started, he did exactly as he’d told himself and nipped back around the front of the shop. Elle was halfway done with her selection. The father was poking around at a shelf while his girl wandered around on toddled feet with an aimless look on her face.

She eventually found her way to one of the smaller, half shelves where Aziraphale had taken to storing the children’s books Adam had so helpfully supplied two years prior—on accident, he’d insisted. Aziraphale had been rather put off by it, of course, but getting to collect his books again had been a fascinating thing he rather enjoyed. It was hard to stay mad at Adam, after all, as he had only done what he was able. These children’s books were collectable, anyway, and some of them had even come in sets. Some in particular did not, and one of those had a bright and colorful pink cover. Or, it had, before the years had rather aged it into a dull pastel. Still, the girl plucked it off the shelf with a little look and pursed lips.

Her father, off on his own, had rather lost track of her at this point, as he was thumbing through the pages of an old philosophy book Aziraphale had once wished he’d never taken the time to collect. One could gather a lot about a person based on their philosophical views, though, and Aziraphale was quite glad to see the father set it back on the shelf with a furrowed brow. He tried the next one, instead.

The little girl plopped right down on the wooden floors and opened the book. From the way she still used her fingers and moved her lips, she hadn’t been reading for very long. Even if she had been, she wasn’t very good at it. Still, the words she could pick out seemed to positively delight her. Her entire face had flushed at one point with her rosy cheeks and smiles. Aziraphale was beginning to find he had quite the soft spot for children, and if her father wasn’t going to pay mind to this, he certainly might. It was his duty, as the keeper of the shop, to ensure the books were handled properly—probably. He’d tell himself that, anyway, when he came to squat in front of the little girl struggling over a word.

“It’s ‘rain-bow’,” he told her, and she jerked to look at him.

“Rain—bow,” she repeated.

“Yes, now together. Rainbow.”

“Rainbow.”

Aziraphale smiled, “jolly good. You’ve got quite a knack for this, you know.”

She positively beamed. Not a moment later, now that there was _talking_ in the shop, her father made quite a show of stomping over and snatching the book from her hands to fold up and put back on the shelf, something like an apology on his lips as he did. They weren’t here for children’s books; they were here for adult books. Until rather recently, Aziraphale had only stocked the latter, but he quite obviously had the former as well, now. If she wanted to look at them, there was no harm in that. Aziraphale believed that, surely, because he let Elle in here all the time to just read.

“She is more than welcome to browse,” Aziraphale said, standing up. “It’s not a bother.”

Her father sighed, “I haven’t found what I need, anyway. We’re leaving.”

“Dad!” she whined, immediately, reaching back for the book. “But I want this one!”

Aziraphale was taken aback. He’d never had someone actively search out a child’s book. Though, he supposed, he’d never really had a child patron either. Did he mind so terribly to sell the children’s books? They weren’t apart of his original collection, though he had grown rather fond of them. He was growing rather fond of this little girl, too, with her big green eyes and pouting lips. And what sort of adult figure would he be if he attempted to stifle the curiosity and learning of a child obviously so curious and ready to learn?

There was a sigh that ripped him from his thoughts. The father was looking at him with a defeated look on his face. The shop’s reputation was well known, that the owner—and now his sister—were quite stingy when it came to the actual selling of books. This was the one moment where someone actually wanted that to be true; the father had said so with the look on his face. He needed Aziraphale to refuse the sale and tell the girl she wasn’t to have any book, not of his. The idea sat a rather sickly hollow in Aziraphale’s stomach, though, and he pulled the book off the shelf.

“I think this book is better suited to her care than mine,” he said, smiling. He handed it to her.

The father sighed louder and reached for his pocketbook, but Aziraphale held up his hand.

“Free of charge, of course,” Aziraphale said. “I hadn’t planned on selling them, given my clientele.”

“Oh,” the father looked shocked. “Oh, ma’am, are you sure? I can pay, I just need to—”

“Quite sure,” Aziraphale smiled. The father still handed over a small tip and insisted Aziraphale keep it, so he did. He might stop by the pastry shop later for a quick treat, then, before Crowley stopped by to take him home.

The father scooped up his daughter, with her new book, and they both waved a fond farewell. The bell rang as they left, the door shut, and Aziraphale stood there with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d sold a book, let alone the last time he felt rather good about it. Usually, it because there weren’t enough excuses in the world to cover the reason, he would not part with something in his collection. That, or a patron was particularly difficult, and it was easier to send them on their way and pocket an unusually high price for it than it was to risk calling for the authorities. This time was entirely different. He’d wanted the girl to have the book, because he couldn’t imagine another who would love the book as she clearly had taken to it.

A thought did pass his mind to apologize to the books he still had, and thusly better care for them in his coming days. There was truly no need to isolate them as they did; they were just children’s books. Nothing about it was so fancifully different. He even thought, in that moment, to lean down and pluck one off the shelf. He didn’t know their names nor their authors, only which ones belonged to which collections. Collections were often just denoted by what clump they sat together with on the shelf, and such only pointed to his neglect, because that was the only reason he even knew the collections.

Elle had already found another book to read, and the day was going on by rather slowly, even given it was a Monday. Surely, no one would miss him if he poked off to the side room, where his desk was and the couch used to be, to read this little book. Children’s books generally existed for the purpose of reading them to children, or in the case of the young girl, teaching them to read. Aziraphale had no such children in his life, and he scarcely thought that he ever would. He was an angel, after all, and the last time angels had ever deigned to father children had been rather disastrous—if the tales were to be believed. Though, and catching his reflection in the mirror, Aziraphale was suddenly and sorely reminded, he wouldn’t very well be fathering anyone, would he?

He thought on that for the briefest of the smallest second before meandering over to his desk to plop down, slip on his readers, and poke through the first book he had grabbed. The shop could run itself for a time. He had no intentions on selling anything, anyway. For a strange moment, he even thought he’d trust Elle to alert him if something needed his attention.

Crowley finished potting his last two plants somewhere around noon, and then found it in himself to hop in the shower for a quick go. There were no such lavish plans like the Ritz on the docket for a while, but there was soil near coating his arms. He did, personally, plan to stop by the flower shop once more to see if they had anything more. The laceleaf was doing quite spectacularly for the week she’d been around, which gave him something like hope for the other plants in the store. None of them had been so striking, of course, but he could always go with a new eye. It was his never-ending search for something to do. More plants could surely, surely be just that thing.

Only, the shower lasted longer than originally intended. He’d seen Aziraphale naked, but he hadn’t _been_ with him naked, not since the subtle little change. It was troubling because he wanted to, so badly, to really get his hands under those prim little clothes he’d gotten. Not in the manner he’d done so already, no, because that had been out of awe and stunning curiosity. He wanted to do something a bit wicked, a bit obscene, but he would wait. He would wait until Aziraphale was interested—for another six-thousand years, if he had to, because he’d done it before. Aziraphale couldn’t very well stop him from wanking off in the shower, so it was alright at the end. It wasted a bit more time, anyway, and it was nice.

Everything about Aziraphale was nice, so thinking of him was no different. His curves, his softness, and all of the new pouches of fat—they were all just positively _nice._ That, and he’d always had nice perky red nipples. They were responsive and sensitive. The new form just seemed to make it better—though, Crowley could have filled that part in himself. There hadn’t been ample time to put that to the test, but oh—there would be. He knew there would be, because he still looked at Aziraphale like that. Aziraphale had never looked; that was too overt for someone of his particular class. He glanced, always out of the corner of his eye with a slight quirk of his lips. Crowley knew the glances. He watched for the glances. And oh, he came for the glances, too.

But rather, back to business once he’d stepped out of the shower to dry himself off. His clothes went into the wash, after, and he trod about the flat naked until he reached the bedroom. For this particular day, colder as it was becoming, he threw Aziraphale’s coat back on over his normal dress—jeans and a nice button up shirt which was purposefully left mostly open. Another excuse to wear Aziraphale’s coat, he supposed, and reveled in it. The warmth was one thing, but the smell of Aziraphale that lingered was another thing.

The walk to the flower shop was not a bad one, but under pure assumption he’d be lucky enough to find something, Crowley took the Bentley instead. Traffic was dense enough that he was confined to below the speed limit most of the day there, but did eventually arrive, for better or for worse. After sauntering in, the first thing he realized was that he was inexplicably alone. No attendant had been there to greet him in their over-excited nature, and even as he wandered back to where the live plants were holding on for their best: no one. He wouldn’t complain for the emptiness, because it meant he didn’t have to listen to some young thing attempt to explain plants to him, something he’d had centuries to master while they had the Internet. Well enough.

There was a feeling though, regardless of reality. Something was watching him, directly in the space between his shoulders were long and angry scars still burned every now and again, when he stopped thinking about them. They weren’t to be forgotten, and Crowley had done well not to. But, even now, as they were a constant thing in his mind, they were burning. At eyes that weren’t there—because Crowley turned around and it was just another plant with red little berries and a frayed leaf. Sad and not the one Crowley was looking for, but every angry, apparently.

Crowley shifted and groaned, trying in such a way to get his clothes to stop clinging to his back with such a strong sort of suffocation. A coleus caught his attention first, a short plant with fat green leaves, pink in the center. It would match the laceleaf quite well with his new intention for color. For one on either side, maybe something would balance; Aziraphale would appreciate the aesthetic, of it, at least. The real reason Aziraphale didn’t spend time in the plant room with Crowley was the active amount of yelling and threat spewing. It had nothing to do with the aesthetics of the place, but it was easier to admit that this was becoming about aesthetics. Crowley already had the most beautiful plants in London, he didn’t need to prove that to anyone. Now it was just about being better than himself. Aziraphale was a good excuse.

Aziraphale was his only excuse.

Aziraphale had seen the angry scars on his back, once. There had been a horrid amount of concern, and Aziraphale had tried to touch them. Something about the proximity itself had hurt, before Aziraphale’s fingers had ever brushed them. Unfortunate bit of information as it was, it was made worse when he discovered Aziraphale had nails, and he liked to use them. He liked to grab around Crowley’s neck when his legs were up over Crowley’s shoulders and claw for some type of purchase—and it _hurt_ when he reached low enough. Crowley kept that to himself, because it easy enough to hide his face in Aziraphale’s neck and bite at him instead. A fair trade, he supposed. Then, when Aziraphale had thought well enough to _ask_ about them, Crowley had no answer. It wasn’t for lack of want to answer, it was for a real and true lack of an answer.

Crowley didn’t know where they’d come from.

Or, at least, he didn’t remember. Not in true form, anyway.

Crowley settled on the coleus. It was a lovely little thing, aside from its color to match the laceleaf, and was doing quite well on its own. He wasn’t looking to bring dying plants back from the verge of death, though he might make it there some day. He was just looking for what would impose on the other plants and make them remember hard work. A plant like this, fine on its own and ready to do finer with a bit of tough love, well, it was just the thing they needed. Any plant who couldn’t cut it in comparison would find itself quickly and efficiently replaced. That was just what Crowley did. That, of course, and Crowley was truly finding the color to be inviting. The plant room had been a pure and verdant green for far too long, at this point.

When he went to the counter to purchase said plant, an attendant was suddenly there as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. He was playing on his phone when Crowley approached, and made a quick and rather noticeable move to act as though he’d never had it out in the first place. Crowley admired the bit of spunk, and if he’d still been a _working_ demon, he would certainly applaud the effort and tempt for a bit more of it. Instead, he just presented the plant and answered all the useless questions the attendant had for him.

“Did you find everything alright?” the attendant asked.

“Quite,” Crowley responded.

“Would you consider purchasing—”

“Nope. Just the plant,” Crowley pushed it forward.

He paid with his card, as he did for everything, and gathered up his receipt. Just for old time’s sake, he dropped the receipt on the ground outside before situating the plant in the front seat of the Bentley, on the towel he’d brought along. Once he’d gotten all done up in the driver’s seat, he leaned back into it and closed his eyes, sighing out through his nose. The flower shop had been empty, and then it hadn’t been. Just as once, it had had a customer, and then it hadn’t. The people always standing in his peripheral, across the street. Just a way that he was never quite sure of he’d seen them. But he had been sure. He was still sure. They had been there, but what of it now? Just a flower shop, the diner, and maybe even the bookshop.

Instead of sighing, Crowley took in a sharp breath and drove the speed limit back to the flat. At the flat, he introduced the new plant to the others and made a sorry, half-baked attempt to yell before collapsing into his throne. This was an exhaustion that had gone straight through his bones, and his back was throbbing in a way that his shoulders had gone stiff, and his hips had the audacity to hurt, as well. Nothing to be done about it, though, because it was difficult to cure a pain when one didn’t quite remember where it came from. All there was to do was close his eyes and hope for the best.

Then, there was a sharp jolt when he dreamed. He’d fallen asleep, somewhere, about sixteen minutes after he sat down to close his eyes, and it was not a pleasant one. Snakes, after all, were not quite welcome to a sweet cat nap in the sun from a window, as Crowley had well attempted. Especially not a snake with a past, and a past that came in a sharp jolt when he dreamed. It was like fire, and it always had been, in the way that fire melted skin when it struck too close. Not a burn, not an explosion, but a slow ooze of pain that left a lot of time and a lot to be desired. That was the fire he remembered. That it had engulfed him, maybe, and he could see it through the back of his eyelids. All of the eyes that came with it.

Eyes. Burning eyes. A subtle, missing pain that shot out through the air behind him and felt like damnation. Something similar, maybe. He didn’t know what it felt like, anymore. Couldn’t remember the difference, so he couldn’t compare, because this wrapped up sort of burning smelt like sulfur and danced around him so often that it was a part of him. It was the only thing he remembered, and glimpses of something else poked through now and again when he didn’t want them—didn’t need the reminder. He tried to block it out, he always had, but the pain was ever present and shot down through all of his limbs and limbs that were not there. Limbs that he couldn’t recall ever having, because it wasn’t _real._ None of it was real.

It was all very much tight breathing and labored pain, but not real. Not really. Not for him. He’d left it all behind. On purpose? On accident? Had it been so much a trip or a swan dive? Or a vague saunter downward that was starting to sound a lot like _Somebody to Love_ , Queen.

Crowley jerked awake in such a way he nearly fell from the throne, but he managed to catch himself on the desk in his haste to get his phone from his pocket. It was ringing—it had been ringing for the duration of four missed calls, and the time was thirty minutes after he was supposed to be at the shop to pick up Aziraphale. Which—fuck. He answered the phone in a rush.

“Angel—I’m so—”

“Crowley! Oh, Heaven’s,” Aziraphale sounded. Worried? He was breathing hard. “I thought something dreadful had happened.”

Crowley collapsed fully back into the throne. His glasses were displaced on the bridge of his nose. “No. Nothing happened. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m leaving now.” He wasn’t moving.

“It’s quite alright, my dear. I stopped by that pastry shop after I closed up and you weren’t by. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Crowley lied. “I’m fine. Give me ten minutes.”

He hung up before he could hear Aziraphale’s response. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t bear it. He’d done it _again._ Aziraphale was left at the shop while he napped like some kind of, well. Not what he was. What a way to be with his new title of boyfriend-lover-significant other-partner-thing. It still wasn’t any proper behavior, so he hurried out the door with only barely time to remember to grab the keys. That would have just been insult to injury, and he certainly was feeling familiar with injury. This called for some type of over the top indulgence. Eventually. Something where he’d pop his wings out and ask Aziraphale if he wouldn’t mind preening them. It sounded nice. As long as he could keep his hands to himself, Aziraphale. Off his back, at least.

Crowley thought too long and too hard of the scars—and leaning into the seat of the Bentley was painful by the time he finally pulled up the side of the street to where Aziraphale was standing. He was munching on a doughnut with frosting on his nose, smiling. Smiling particularly at Crowley, who gave him another apology as he stepped into the car. Crowley wiped the frosting off his nose with his thumb while Aziraphale told him he didn’t need to apologize—again. Then, he shared a bite of his snack, which Crowley accepted and appreciated the way it calmed him.

“Are you alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Fine.”

Aziraphale took the rest of the doughnut and licked his fingers. He stared at Crowley.

Crowley eyed him once. Then twice. Then shifted in his seat and said “my back’s been bothering me is all. Nothing major.”

Aziraphale looked alarmed. “Oh, that’s not good. Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“I’m fine.”

This time, Aziraphale frowned. Crowley parked across the street from the flat building and used that as the perfect excuse to disappear from Aziraphale’s immediately, accusatory glare. When Aziraphale stepped out, though, he was right back in it, and shrinking further through every second.

“Just—inside, angel. Not out here,” he said, ushering Aziraphale across the street. He waved to the car who had to stop for them, and then managed enough of a hobble to open the door for Aziraphale.

Inside the flat, Aziraphale toed off his shoes in the foyer and ensured Crowley did the same. Without a preamble, Aziraphale took Crowley by the wrist and dragged him back through the house. There was time enough for an idle comment about the new plant. It made Crowley preen, but they didn’t stop to talk about it. Aziraphale was insistent and didn’t let him go until they were in the room, the door was closed, and Crowley’s coat was taken from him, hung back in Aziraphale’s part of the closet. When Aziraphale approached Crowley again, he went straight for unbuttoning his shirt buttons, which gave Crowley a second of pause.

“What are you doing?”

Aziraphale shot him a glare, “you’ll want to be more comfortable, yes? I could see the way you were squirming in the car. It’ll be better to not wear the shirt.”

Oh. That made sense. Crowley sniffed and shrugged the shirt off when Aziraphale finished the buttons and untucked it. Aziraphale had been correct. This felt ages better, but it still wasn’t entire right. In the three seconds it took Aziraphale to turn around and drop the shirt in the hamper, Crowley couldn’t keep himself contained. His wings furled out for the briefest moment before they bunched up close and curled near his body. Aziraphale put a hand on his face and kissed him.

“I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley continued.

“You aren’t. You clearly are not alright, Crowley. I want to help you.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“You could hardly impose on me, I think. You do so much for me. Let me help you. And besides,” for this, Aziraphale seemed rather offended, “I do love you. I don’t want to see you out like this.”

Crowley deflated all at once, dropping his forehead into Aziraphale’s stomach. Aziraphale was standing in front of him and had had his arms crossed for a long moment before now, where he reached out and took sympathy—dragged his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“I had one of those dreams again,” Crowley finally said. “About the fire.”

Aziraphale assumed the fire was the fire at the bookshop. Crowley didn’t know what it was, in truth, so he never corrected Aziraphale. The concern was all that mattered. That, and the way Aziraphale’s fingers felt against his scalp. Crowley’s wings twitched and relaxed against the bed for it.

“What can I do? There must be something,” Aziraphale pleaded.

“It’s stupid,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale insisted that it couldn’t be. “Can you, well,” Crowley conceded, “groom my wings, I guess.”

Aziraphale gave a gentle smile. “Do they hurt, as well?”

Crowley nodded—it couldn’t have been about the bookshop, because what did his wings have to do with that? Crowley didn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know. What he wanted was Aziraphale to fix it for him, and Aziraphale seemed very intent on doing his best about that.

First, Aziraphale dressed down for the occasion. It was late enough as it was, so taking a minute to disrobe and slip into his night shirt. Between Crowley’s rather inappropriate comment that they should invest in a slip, instead, and Aziraphale’s rather over-exaggerated groan, Aziraphale had sat cross-legged on the bed directly behind him. There was a long moment where Aziraphale just looked forward at the scars. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them, but every time felt like the first time. They were large. With red and raised skin, they always looked fresh and new. He knew they were painful, just from the way Crowley reacted.

After that moment, Aziraphale took the left wing in his hands first and went about the grooming. It wasn’t really grooming or preening or anything of the sorts. Demons tended to have better groomed wings, in general—or so Aziraphale had heard. He’d only ever seen one demon with wings, and that was Crowley. It never seemed a topic of conversation, so Aziraphale had never thought on it, either. Still, it made Crowley a better candidate for grooming his own wings than Aziraphale, but it wasn’t about that. Comfort was more important, and the intimacy of it. There was no one else on or off the earth that Crowley would let do this, so it meant all the more.

“Have I ever told you your wings are lovely?” Aziraphale asked.

“Time or two.”

Aziraphale smiled, “well, make it three, then. Your wings are lovely.”

“They’re black and charred,” Crowley responded, and the wing in Aziraphale’s hand jerked away in time. The right one, this time, settled in its place.

“Well, you have your opinion, and I have mine.” A beat of silence, then, “have you ever thought to braid your hair again? I haven’t seen you wear a bread since, well, Mesopotamia.”

Crowley quirked a smile at that. “I don’t think my hair’s long enough for that. Do you even know how to braid hair?” he shifted to look back over his shoulder. Aziraphale’s face was red.

“Well, no. I don’t. Never minded to learn.”

“I could teach you.”

“And just what would that help with? You’re certainly capable of braiding your own hair.”

“Oh, sure, but you could braid _yours._ How do you forget how long it is?”

“I’m just not used to it. Please don’t make fun of me for it, this isn’t something that I’ve done in a very long while.”

Crowley took his wings back and shifted on the bed as carefully as he could manage, that he didn’t knock anything over or astray with the extra mass and sat to face Aziraphale. He was a sight to behold, as always, but in these moments when they both might think for bed soon, Aziraphale was everything more. His hair was down and out of the half-pony it had been in earlier, draped down around his shoulders. Crowley was really considering ducking back over to the intimates’ shop and buying some nice night slip, one that was thin and light blue. Even in the night shirt Aziraphale wore, which was some type of cotton blend, Crowley could see the outline of his breasts and the perk of his nipples. It folded up with his thighs, too, bunched up around his hips so he could see the length of his legs.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale looked at him funny. “I love you.”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled. “I love you, too. Are you finished, or would you like anything more?”

“One thing more, if you would,” Crowley said, reaching out to take Aziraphale’s hands. “Tell me about your day?”

Aziraphale practically beamed at the suggestion. First, Crowley simply must get ready for bed, himself. They could make a bit of a night of it, so Aziraphale would make them tea and fetch snacks from the kitchen while Crowley did whatever he needed to do. The excitement for something so simple was refreshing, though, because it was so little that it just reminded Crowley that when Aziraphale said things, he meant them. That included the ever-professed love of a demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I told you they would talk. Eventually.  
>   
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> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back atcha with another chapter, the chapter we have been eagerly awaiting the posting of. Important things happen in this chapter, very important things. Keep your eyes open.

They met up in the kitchen after Crowley changed into his flannel trousers, no shirt. Aziraphale had started the water for tea and was flitting about the cabinets looking for something suitable when Crowley opened the refrigerator door to produce a half-eaten meat and cheese tray they’d started on about a week past. It seemed just the thing, apparently, because Aziraphale’s face melted into a rather dopey smile. Crowley couldn’t help the smile back, because Aziraphale was stunning with his hair all down in messy curls around his face. There wasn’t a day he didn’t think it, and not a day he didn’t say it.

Aziraphale brushed over the comment to attempt to hide the way it still turned his face all red. Instead, they talked about idle things like how Crowley was feeling. He’d opted to hide his wings away, and the scars were still a blazing bit of red on his back, but other than that he was fine. The lack of shirt both helped that and helped Aziraphale with something to stare at, in his rather idle need to eye Crowley in the same way Crowley looked at him. Then, even if the proper topic of conversation was to be about Aziraphale’s day, Aziraphale was the first to turn the question around while he readied the cups and the tea bags. Crowley was fine to share his day, because it meant he got to talk about his plants. And he did love to talk about his plants; the new one was particularly pretty, and he was sure that it would do quite well among the others.

Then, Aziraphale poured the boiling water over the tea bags and curled his hair behind his ear while he set aside the kettle. He hummed and responded to ensure Crowley knew he was listening while he gathered up a little spoon to stir sugar into his own, while Crowley took a stronger and unsweetened tea. The plants were getting bigger, and Crowley was having a harder time than he wanted to admit with trimming them down to keep them in their space. He didn’t _want_ to keep them in their space, but he couldn’t very well do anything else with them. If they were any larger, the flat would be covered in them.

“Perhaps a garden?” Aziraphale suddenly asked. “Should we, say, move out of the city?”

Crowley blinked. “Out of the city? You mean out of Soho, or do you mean London entirely?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale admitted. He carried the tea while Crowley took the platter, and they followed one another down the corridor, back to the bedroom. “But it would seem to me that a house with a yard might better suit your plants.”

“Well, probably,” Crowley shrugged. He wasn’t particularly attached to the flat. It might have been across the street from the Ritz, and it might be where he and Aziraphale had started so many things together, but it was just a place. With just as many bad memories as good memories, there was no real reason to feel a tug in his stomach at the idea of leaving it.

“Anyway,” Crowley waved it off, “thought you didn’t want to leave Soho. What about the bookshop?”

Aziraphale sniffed. He’d set his cup of tea on his nightstand, and Crowley’s on his, then crawled into bed with his knees slightly bent towards his chest. Crowley was just standing at the foot of the bed, the platter still in his hands, staring at Aziraphale. The bookshop had meant the world to him. When he’d learned it had burned down, he’d nearly cried right there on that park bench; Crowley couldn’t blame him. When the Bentley finally exploded, Crowley had nearly cried too. Now, both of the things were back and in better condition than ever, but some things didn’t heal that quickly. Aziraphale still thought about the fire—Crowley still thought about it. He’d walked right into it and thought Aziraphale dead.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Crowley decided. He set the tray down on the bed before rounding to his side and lying on his back, feet propped up on the pillows. “Don’t know where we’d go. Don’t know _why_ we’d go.”

“It was just a suggestion,” Aziraphale retorted, though he didn’t seem near as put off about it as he was trying to sound. He couldn’t really place where the suggestion had come from, after all. If he did know, he certainly wasn’t ready to say it. All he could manage was running his fingers up Crowley’s shin and resting on his knee.

“Come down here, angel,” Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale did as he was asked and laid down on his stomach, where it was suddenly so much easier for Crowley to wrap an arm around his neck and pull him in close. Aziraphale shifted until he was comfortable, then rested his chin on Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s fingers were in his hair, and neither one of them paid much mind to the tea or the platter of food. Just each other.

There was a long moment of silence while they stayed like that, with Crowley tugging at Aziraphale’s curls and just regarding him with a soft look. Aziraphale smiled at him, sweetly, and thought about just how nothing at all had changed. Crowley seemed a bit freer in his affection, but that was all. They’d done the scary part to just admit how they felt, and everything fell back into place. Admittance didn’t mean that this had only started in that moment. This was something they’d been building to for six-thousand years, and Aziraphale thought it was all rather beautiful. He thought Crowley was rather beautiful, too. Especially in moments like these where Crowley’s mind was so focused on _him_ that he forgot himself and looked rather more a demon because of it. His yellow eyes, red and black little scales popping up around his neck. Aziraphale moved to spread his fingers over one, and Crowley jolted.

“Don’t mind,” Aziraphale told him. “I rather like you this way.”

“Haven’t the faintest idea why,” Crowley rolled his eyes, but he didn’t make any considerable effort to reign himself in. “It makes me look like a demon.”

“Yes, dear, well. You are a demon.”

“Doesn’t seem like a fact you need reminded of,” and Crowley said it with a bit of venom on his tongue. It had always been a bit of a sore spot between them, Crowley’s demon nature. He half expected Aziraphale to grumble something back along the lines of hereditary enemies and for everything to go back to where it had been. That didn’t happen. Aziraphale smiled wide and let out a little laugh, tracing idle and nonsensical patterns over Crowley’s chest.

“Perhaps, but you’re my demon, and if I want to be reminded of that, that seems rather more my business than yours.”

That hadn’t been the response Crowley was expecting. He really didn’t expect when Aziraphale shifted up to his elbows, close as he could manage, and pressed a funny little kiss to the tip of his nose. Still smiling, all in the way that he did so the room was brighter for it. Crowley relaxed after that, smiling himself, and rubbed his hand up and down Aziraphale’s back in a way meant to calm him, soothe him, and invite him to lay back down over Crowley. Much like a cat, Crowley mused, when Aziraphale had finally made himself comfortable again. Or a dog, because he squirmed a bit more than a cat would, even once comfortable. Still, Crowley continued to rub his back with varying pressures until he might as well have been purring.

Crowley didn’t like his scales. He didn’t like his eyes. The tongue was rather useful, so he didn’t mind it so much, but it was the only trait he didn’t mind. Everything else he would have traded away if there was, truly, a way to find a new entire body. Not without paperwork, which he had no access too now that he was officially retired. That’s what he’d taken to calling it, anyway. Retirement suited them both, and Crowley leaned into the sheets with his arm behind his head, letting his eyes close.

“Tell me about your day, then,” Crowley said. “It’s been long enough a time to wait.”

He heard munching, then opened one eye as Aziraphale popped the second half of a hard cheese in his mouth. He was grinning like he’d just tasted the finest wine, then leaned his chin back down into Crowley’s chest before deciding it was a better use of his time to kiss it instead. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale kissed up and up until their lips were pressed together, and Crowley had a fistful of his hair to keep him in just the right place. Once the thought had passed through about Aziraphale’s new hair, that it would look marvelous in a long braid, it hadn’t left. Crowley was itching to get his hands on it.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, when he pulled back. “My day was wonderful, and I will tell you just the reason why.”

“Might I braid your hair, though?” Crowley interrupted before Aziraphale could even start. “It’s dry, so it probably won’t stay, but I’ve got a vision.”

Aziraphale blinked once, twice, then nodded. “That sounds marvelous. Shall I sit on the floor?”

Crowley nodded and they shifted for it, after Crowley popped a piece of hard salami. He folded up his legs on the end of the bed while Aziraphale sat right up against the frame. Another piece of salami, then Crowley wiped his hands on his trousers. It would be a cardinal sin to ruin Aziraphale’s hair, especially with something as base as grease from a piece of salami. Crowley’s pants were a different story, and he could throw those in the washer if he so desired. Aziraphale’s hair was gorgeous, and it had always been rather nice. Suited him, that sort of thing. Long, like this, the curls had a chance to form into tight little ringlets, all lovely and long down around Aziraphale’s shoulders, his back, and over his breasts. Crowley had a mind to just lean forward and _touch_ , but that wasn’t the point. This was purely domestic, which was wonderful in its own right.

As a brush, Crowley used his fingers to card through Aziraphale’s curls and separate them out properly. This would be a better braid if his hair was wet, but Crowley wasn’t about to wait for the proper time to shower—or at least wet the hair. This was fine, and the hair was so, so soft. Soft as it had always been, but there was so much more of it now. Aziraphale seemed rather pleased for it, anyway, and seemed a bit short of breath when Crowley tugged a bit too hard in certain places. Then, the story. While Crowley braided, Aziraphale shared.

He talked about the little things, as he did, about opening the shop and straightening things. He was still considering a bit of an investment for some more furniture in the shop, especially if Crowley ever decided to spend a day there again in his lazy afternoons. Now that the couch was at the flat, there was less space overall to sit. But that was an idle thought, and Aziraphale moved past it almost as fast as he’d come for it. He might have even considered something rather nice for a snake to rest on, but that idea he didn’t mention out loud. Aziraphale skipped straight to the part where Elle wandered in for the morning, and they talked well and long about books. Different suggestions went by, and recommendations, before she had finally settled in on the Terry Pratchett novel. Then, a comment about how Crowley would enjoy it, too.

“I don’t read,” Crowley reminded.

“Sure,” Aziraphale smiled and let his eyes close. Crowley tugged his head back as he curled in a few more strands. A French braid would certainly suit Aziraphale.

Aziraphale skipped over the part where Elle seemed to know that customers were coming before there was any indication of it, but he did mention that she was a rather fast reader. That was something he respected in a person, and he had a special soft spot for Elle. On the new customers, Aziraphale spent time in length describing them before he moved into the real reason for his rather upbeat mood. The little girl had been quite a wonderful part of the day, especially when her interest in books was concerned. Her father had left a bit to be desired, but he was a passing side character in Aziraphale’s tale. Rather the books were more important; Aziraphale was feeling quite bad for his prior treatment of the books. He explained that part in depth, then asked:

“Do you think it’s bad of me? The way that I’ve treated them?” he was picking at his fingernails, always well-manicured.

“Angel, I yell at my plants on a daily basis. Your treatment is quite literally a godsend,” Crowley would have rolled his eyes if he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t, somehow, be able to feel that he had. It wasn’t that he particularly judged Aziraphale for his overly worried behavior, just that sometimes it went to places it probably didn’t need to go. They were just books. Quite less living than Crowley’s daily abused plants, though he wouldn’t ever deign to feel bad for that.

“Well, you shouldn’t do that.”

Crowley tugged on his hair again, and that was the end of that conversation.

Aziraphale continued his story, where he spent careful time talking about the part where he’d helped the little girl with the word ‘rainbow’. There was nothing particularly special about that incident, just that he’d done it and enjoyed it. Which led him straight into a tangent about how enjoyable it would be to teach a child to read. They were so young and so curious, surely, they would need a gentle hand to guide them in these things. Not that there were any children for him to teach, but what if there _were_. A volunteer job or a day care, something of the sort. Though, that would take him quite far away from his books. Certainly not the ideal. He caught himself then and realized he’d gone quite off, to which Crowley just laughed and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. Always listening and always attentive, Crowley surely didn’t mind if he changed topics. This topic had clearly excited him, so it was all the more fun to watch his excitement.

The story reached its peak in Aziraphale’s next explanation, where the father had come over and taken the book from the girl. Aziraphale was so taken with her already, and maybe it was well just kids in general, that he’d _given_ her the book. He hadn’t asked for a cent, though the father had helpfully forced a bit of a stipend on him anyway. A stipend that had been immediately used to buy the pastry he’d been nibbling when Crowley did finally pick him up. Again, Crowley apologized, but Aziraphale really only cared for how good the doughnut had been. He was thinking already to get another one. An activity for Tuesday, as it was too late for any family owned shop like that to be open. They probably had duties at home and children to look after.

“Well, I’ll be on time tomorrow. We can stop by the shop then,” Crowley offered. He finally finished the braid and used his own hair tie, the one he kept on his wrist, to finish it up. After an hour or so, he’d probably take it back out. There wouldn’t be any point in it if it fell completely apart on its own.

“Oh, can we, Crowley?” Aziraphale turned around. Crowley’s heart stopped. There were little curls of hair too short to say in the braid falling around his face in a near halo, and it was all quite divine. Aziraphale must have seen the reaction for what it was, because his smile was soft, and he moved up onto the frame of the bed to give Crowley a gentle kiss.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley barely managed to squawk out a reply.

“Why do you stare so helplessly?” Aziraphale asked when he clearly knew the answer. “Is there something on my face?”

“Yes—no, no! No,” Crowley went from calm to panicked in a second, his hands coming to cup Aziraphale’s jaw. “No, no. Nothing. You’re lovely. Beautiful, angel. Quite a marvel to behold, if I were to be so bold.”

“Please,” Aziraphale grinned up to the light in his eyes, “be bold, Crowley.”

“You are positively _wicked_ ,” Crowley breathed, and then, “ _Aziraphale._ ”

The quietest of moments passed before Crowley decided this was something that he wanted, and he helped Aziraphale into his lap. Aziraphale was so pliant when he wanted to be, happily straddling around Crowley’s thighs and leaning into him fully, arms draped over his shoulder. He reached behind to pluck a couple slices of cheese from the tray and slipped one between his lips. Their foreheads bumped, then, and Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to instigate the challenge. Crowley stole the cheese from his lips and ate it himself, smiling, and then they kissed instead. The second piece of cheese was left forgotten, probably on the bed sheets, which was fine. They’d find it later and be sure not to sleep with it. Everything about Aziraphale was more enticing than a piece of cheese, and Crowley would sooner never have cheese again if it meant he could keep his hands where they were. He’d started on Aziraphale’s thighs, slowly worming up underneath his night shirt and along the heat of his skin.

That’s all it was, then, the kissing. A deep and passionate entanglement, but just with tongues and nothing more. Aziraphale kept his hands in a respectable place on Crowley’s neck, and Crowley had stopped at the rolls on his waist where he had plenty to grasp at and squeeze. It always left Aziraphale a bit breathless, and not for the pleasure, but for the thought of it. There had been a time, two years and some odd months ago, he’d been rather ashamed of the state he’d let his body get to. There were so many ways to say what he’d done: Gabriel had called it a gut, he called himself fat, and Crowley just said it was _indulgence_ , which made it rather beautiful. Crowley being a demon and all, he would certainly like the finer things in life like sloth or gluttony. Though it had sounded more in jest, at the time, Aziraphale did think more often than not of the way Crowley enjoyed the way he looked.

It hadn’t fixed Aziraphale’s thoughts, but it had helped Aziraphale fix them himself. Now, Aziraphale was nearly taken with himself. Not in the same way Crowley was, of course, but he certainly hadn’t minded the few rounds they’d taken in front of the mirror on one particular hot night in July, earlier that year. Nearly wished they could do it again, but not now. He still wasn’t ready, not like this. For whatever reason it was that he couldn’t place, and Crowley didn’t seem to mind. When they’d finally pulled apart, Aziraphale smoothed back Crowley’s hair and grinned at him. All this smiling. All this affection. Aziraphale surely thought he would burst from it.

“Shall we?” Crowley suddenly asked, presenting a piece of cheese for Aziraphale to eat.

“If you intend to feed me, then we shall.”

This was quickly turning into a date night, even if they were in bed together. Finally, in proper bed together, where they were both sitting at the head of it leaned into the mass of pillows Crowley always kept around. They had tea and their platter. Each other. Aziraphale was curled up underneath Crowley’s arm and against his chest, nothing but smiles as he accepted everything Crowley presented him with. He commented on the different cheeses, their tangy flavor or the sweetness. Some of them were even a bit sour, which he didn’t care for as much as the others. He ate them all anyway and commented further when Crowley presented him with the meat. Then, together. Until Crowley presented a particular piece of salami again and only pressed it halfway between Aziraphale’s lips. That piece, Crowley leaned down to snatch back and chew himself before kissing Aziraphale fully.

Might their tea have been wine; it would’ve been a different story come later in the evening. Aziraphale might have finally caved, a bit of liquid courage in his system, and straddled Crowley himself. Rather, Crowley settled down in the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while Aziraphale shifted to find a comfortable place to prop himself up, like he intended to read. The lights were off, save for Aziraphale’s dim little lamp, and the night had come to a rather pleasant little end. Aziraphale couldn’t have hoped for better, and Crowley was certainly enjoying his time. It took his mind off the nightmare he’d had, enough that he didn’t even fear the idea of going back to sleep for the night. Sleeping was a vice he would let no one take from him, not even himself.

“Well,” Crowley punctuated with a rather excessive yawn, “goodnight, angel.”

“Yes. Sleep well, my dear,” Aziraphale responded with a smile. He brushed Crowley’s hair out of his face just for a final touch, then kept his hands to himself. They had not taken Aziraphale’s braid out, though it was dreadfully falling apart. He didn’t seem to mind it, though, and instead curled a stray strand around his finger as he thumbed at a book.

Beside him, Crowley shifted properly until he was comfortable, then let his eyes close. But he didn’t fall asleep, not immediately in the way that only he could. Aziraphale had been in this position long enough to know what it looked like when Crowley fell asleep, and this subtle breathing and impossible stillness was not how Crowley slept at all. In fact, Crowley looked rather dead when he slept. His entire body stopped doing things it did to look human, which meant there was no subtle breathing and his stillness was stiff, like a corpse, and not overly relaxed like a human playing pretend. Whatever reason there was for play sleep, Aziraphale didn’t bother to play wake Crowley to ask. Instead, he decided to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair in a subtle attempt at soothing him. In turn, he stared blankly at the page of his novel with no intentions to actually read the words.

There were thoughts so tightly wrapped up in his head that it was hard to focus on anything else. He’d had exactly one experience of finally coming clean with Crowley, and it had been a wonderful rush of love and attentiveness. Crowley had listened, reciprocated, and everything had turned out for the better. On the same side of that particular coin, he knew what every second before that moment had felt like. For centuries, he’d known what it was like to keep things bottled up and hide them from Crowley. It felt rather like a bad case of constipation—not very pleasant, and certainly not something Aziraphale was looking to make a repeat performance of. The euphoria of letting go, however, that was something he was looking on about. It’s what made these thoughts so difficult, because he was afraid of the outcome.

He was always afraid of the outcome when he didn’t know it ahead of time. There was seldom a situation that he didn’t know the ending to, especially with Crowley, but he was pulling these things straight out of the woodworks apparently. It did appear that way, unfortunately, though all of these thoughts were things that had lingered on for years. Something about this year, in particular specialty, just seemed the right time for things to roll out into place. Hopefully, it wasn’t too much for Crowley to bear or to understand. If he listened, and he always did, surely Crowley would take it rather calmly, in his way. He was always rather calm, in his way, even when rage built up behind his eyes. Yelling at Aziraphale wasn’t one of his favorite pass times, which meant he had a bit of leeway with these particular thoughts.

Crowley would not yell at him.

Still, the strangeness of it all falling down at one moment. First, he’d presented as a woman. Not a week later he was telling Crowley he loved him—rather demanding that Crowley love him back. Now. Well. Now, these thoughts felt a bit heavy on top of it all. Just another rock he could ask for Crowley to carry, and Crowley would probably do it. That was as frightening as him refusing, even as frightening as the idea that Crowley would _mock_ him over this.

There had to be a way to talk about this where he wouldn’t immediately combust. Maybe there wasn’t, and he would stew for the rest of the night without reading a single word on the page, his hair still tangled up in Crowley’s hair. Crowley still wasn’t asleep. Aziraphale still wasn’t reading. Nothing was falling into place like it was supposed to be, which made the room feel heavy and thick. Too warm. Warmer than it needed to be. Aziraphale just had to take a plunge.

“Crowley?” he’d settle for a tiptoe in the same direction. Baby steps.

“Hm?” Crowley hummed in response immediately. He opened his eyes again and rolled onto his back, hands folded over his middle. Not an ounce of effort was made to look as though he had been asleep, or anywhere near.

“Do you like this form?”

Crowley eyed him for a minute, brow raised. “I do? I thought I told you that.”

“You know, I’ve made it rather, well. It’s quite authentic, true to form, sort of thing. You know.”

“I don’t.”

Aziraphale took in a sharp breath. “Well, I mean—it doesn’t really matter. The form, I mean. I’m quite sure I could’ve done this far before the form. This form, in particular. I just, well. No. I did think about it. I have been thinking about it, is what I’m saying—it has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve decided to present like this.”

Crowley watched him closely.

“I’m not sure when I could’ve done this, but I know it was before this. Maybe not before the Apocalypse, though, well. It wasn’t an Apocalypse, was it? No, that was quite prevented. Good on us, yes? Yes,” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “The form and this are not related.”

“I got that. Not related. What are you talking about?”

“It’s just—I haven’t thought to really do it in person until now, and I have thought about it. Before now, I mean. Just not quite as seriously. It’s been some time though. It has, and I’ve thought about it. Idly, I suppose, but—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley was short with it. Aziraphale looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Right,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Right. Well. It’s the form, you see.”

Crowley didn’t see, but he listened. He always listened.

“I’ve really done quite a good job, I think. It just all seemed to fit for the time, and I could have done it earlier. I could have. This,” he gestured to himself, “wasn’t necessary. It didn’t spark anything, I just—I’ve been thinking about something.”

“About what?”

“Children,” Aziraphale squeaked out.

Crowley shifted up to his side, propped on his elbow. “Children,” he repeated.

“Children,” again. “Precisely to say, _our_ children.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide. He stammered out something that wasn’t quite a word, wasn’t quite a noise, just a long string of letters put together punctuated by short and confused breath.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale reached out for him. “Crowley, calm down. Please—”

“Children,” Crowley repeated. “Children! Our children—Aziraphale, what are you—with _me_?”

That wasn’t the issue Aziraphale had been expecting. He’d been expecting Crowley to shout about how this was a stupid idea, or at least wonder how it was actually possible. Aziraphale had tried to preface that with his rather poor explanation. Maybe it hadn’t been as poor as he thought, that, or Crowley had filled in the missing information with assumptions or experience. But the concern wasn’t any of that. It was, well, the presumed father. That would be Crowley, if anything were to ever happen. Aziraphale was already thinking that it wouldn’t. Just an effort gone to waste.

“Who else?” Aziraphale asked. “Do you think I’ve been going around with someone else behind your back?”

“No—no, that’s not—you wouldn’t, I know that,” Crowley looked rather put off by the suggestion. “ _Why_ me? I’m—I’m a _demon_.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Crowley was sitting up. “Aren’t you afraid of what that means? That I might— _hurt_ you? Or the kid?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He wasn’t afraid of Crowley. There were times, perhaps, in the past that he’d feared him. It was in the far-off past, however, and he hadn’t feared Crowley in the slightest for the longest time. Not even at his roughest or angriest. At the end of the day, behind the demon facade, he was just Crowley. He was Anthony J. Crowley, and he was everything Aziraphale had ever wanted. Sometimes it was a little ridiculous, sometimes it was overly bearing. But mostly, it was just right.

“What about Heaven? Or Hell? What if they find out?” Crowley’s next excuse.

“They haven’t been watching us so far.”

Crowley let out a frustrated noise and tugged on his own hair. “What about—what—I mean. It’s _me,_ angel. Demon—you know.”

“I do know. It’s precisely _because_ it’s you that I’ve been thinking about this. We have the means to do it, I think. I’m sure you can make whatever effort you need to do the other part, but I can.”

“Tested it out then, have you?”

Aziraphale frowned.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that at all. I just don’t understand how you could want this _with me_.”

“I love you, Crowley. It’s that simple. Why not do something for it?”

“It’s _me._ ” Crowley didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t let himself believe that things really were just that fine and lively. And lovely. And wonderful. A bit of bright light in what had been a mundane little routine Crowley was crawling through. But the idea was so hard to wrap his head around, even if it elated him. Even if his entire body was light and warm with just _happiness_.

Children. Aziraphale wanted _children._ Aziraphale could _have_ children—Crowley had gathered as much, anyway—and had made that effort so _they_ could have children. All because Aziraphale wanted to have children _with him._ Even for his demon nature. Even for whatever other excuse he couldn’t think of in the moment, and he would think of more. Certainly. Either way, this couldn’t be happening. Not because it was a bad thing. Exactly the opposite. This was an amazing thing. Crowley had never specifically thought of having children, and Aziraphale was right, a specific effort would have to be made. But now that the opportunity had presented itself?

“If you don’t want to,” Aziraphale’s voice interrupted the flood of thoughts, “you can just say so. I just wanted to bring it up before I went mad with silence,” and he covered it up with a nervous laughter.

“Oh, no,” Crowley pulled himself up and swung his leg over Aziraphale’s lap to straddle him. “No, that’s not at all what I meant. I’m just surprised. I never thought—not with me, of all people.”

“You’re the only one I’d think about it with. And I have thought about it.”

Crowley leaned down and kissed him with all the might he could muster, cupping his face. Aziraphale kissed back immediately, molding himself up into Crowley’s body in the process. This kiss was like fire, and that fire said one very less than subtle _yes._ Crowley wanted this. All fears be damned, because at the moment, the only thought they had in mind was each other. When Crowley started working on his nightshirt, it suddenly wasn’t a bother. Aziraphale even helped to get it over his head, immediately pulling Crowley back down for a kiss when it was gone. While they kissed, Crowley cupped his breasts and massaged them under his fingers. Aziraphale parted back to gasp.

“Crowley—Crowley, are we really—?”

“Better get started immediately, right? It doesn’t always take the first time,” Crowley had a devious little grin on his face, behind the breathless awe, and his hands dropped down to smooth over Aziraphale’s belly.

Aziraphale let out a helpless, breathy little sound with a shudder. He grabbed onto Crowley’s shoulders just for something to hold, to ground himself in the moment. The reality that Crowley _wanted_ this. Children were not just a possibility or a strange idea Aziraphale had been mulling over since he first started to believe Crowley could actually love him back some year and a half ago. Children _could be_ their new reality, if it worked. Blessed be, he wanted it to work. Aziraphale wanted this to work so badly, he was willing to ignore the less than ready feeling he had when Crowley’s hands dipped down to his thighs instead.

They were kissing, after that, while Crowley maneuvered them down into a more comfortable position. Until Aziraphale’s head was cradled softly in the pillows, his mused hair spreading out in the way that it could, being half braided, like a lovely little halo. Crowley looked in awe of him, in his entirety, from the redness of his cheeks, the swell of his tits, to the extra fat around his hips and thighs. Crowley loved all of it, every bit of it, and buried his face into Aziraphale’s neck just to _experience_ him for a moment. Then, just the briefest moment of doubt that always rose up when they hadn’t properly discussed things. One which Aziraphale appreciated because it meant Crowley didn’t do this for him. It was a mutual thing.

“If you want,” he said, muffled by the meat of Aziraphale’s neck. “We don’t have to. We never have to.”

“As you said, though. Best to get started as quickly as possible, hm?”

With that, Crowley agreed wholeheartedly. He threw back the blankets and settled between Aziraphale’s thighs while they kissed, kissed, and kissed until Aziraphale was ready to take away his death grip.

It was nearly three in the morning when Crowley decided he needed a break. He rolled to his side of the bed with a thump and stretched out. A moment later, Aziraphale had curled up next to him with a contented little smile on his face, eyes half drooped closed. Blissed out was a better way to describe it, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Crowley was feeling rather sated for it all, at least, and he wrapped a tight arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder to keep him nice and close. The warmth was nice, just as nice as the touch of bare skin from his chest to his legs where Aziraphale had swung one of his over. This was the first moment they’d taken longer than a breather since they’d started, and it still didn’t seem entirely necessary.

It was probably a break they didn’t need and shouldn’t have taken. In the silence, there was time for thoughts to creep up and tell Crowley the final excuse he hadn’t been able to pinpoint before he’d so readily dove into the idea. Now that he had time to think of it, this was the worst excuse as it was the best. The most dangerous. The one that probably would have stopped them both from doing what they just did, though there was always a chance it hadn’t worked. They could prevent another round or three, because that just required self-control—that Crowley was holding onto with the last few delicate strings. Maybe a miracle would be in order, but none of the mattered until he said something.

He looked at Aziraphale and shifted them so he could lay on his side, propped on his elbow, and Aziraphale was still happily nestled up against his neck. It was better he couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face for this, for the chance that this would break him. Thinking Crowley had regretted their coupling would be sure to do that, but. Well, there were ways he could avoid that. He held Aziraphale close and pressed a kiss into his hair. Now or never, he supposed. They couldn’t undo what they’d just done.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley said rather stupidly, and mentally slapped himself for it. It still had Aziraphale shifting.

“Yes, you are. I’m glad we established that.”

“What’s not what I meant—I just mean, well. This idea of yours. A kid.”

Aziraphale pushed back immediately, and now Crowley had to deal with the consequences of watching the way Aziraphale took that in all the worst ways possible. He reacted as quickly as he could, molding his hand into Aziraphale’s cheek and pressing their foreheads together.

“It’s a good idea, mind. Don’t misunderstand. I just. There’s a concern, I suppose.”

“ _What_ could possibly concern you now?” Aziraphale looked ready to cry about it already. Crowley kept a tight hold on him so he wouldn’t disappear across the bed and be lost to him forever.

“Aziraphale, listen to me. How do we know what—what would this kid _be?_ ”

Crowley had heard the stories just as Aziraphale had. The mechanics were different, now, and Aziraphale had used that as an excuse not to worry about it. He worried about it anyway, and now he knew that Crowley was worrying for it too. Nephilim had been monsters at worst and giants at best. Nephilim were also the children of angels and humans; Crowley was no human. He was, as he’d rather stupidly said, a demon. They were from the same original stock, so maybe nothing at all would happen. Maybe they’d just have an angel child. But that was nothing more than wishful thinking. Demons and angels willfully having children wasn’t something God would allow. Non-willfully having children seemed even a less likely thing to fit into Her grand plan. Of that, Aziraphale was sure. Which meant this was entirely their very blasphemous effort. Which meant, if they succeeded, there was no way to know.

That spread a seed of doubt.

“It could be a monster,” Crowley helpfully provided. “Could be nothing. Could be frightfully human.”

“There’s always a chance it’ll just be a child,” Aziraphale replied, though his tone betrayed what hope he’d meant to speak.

“And there’s a chance it’ll be a giant. There’s a chance it won’t even _look_ like a human. Or us. At all.”

“You once asked me if I would give up my chance to be with you for the chance that Heaven would come after me for it. Clearly, I chose the better chance. Now, if you would rather stop this now for the chance that we’ll have a _monster_ child, then just tell me.”

Crowley didn’t like the sound of that, either. Instead, he pulled Aziraphale back into his chest and held him there, carding fingers through his hair until the braid fell out, and the hair tie was gone. Maybe a proper thing to do would have been to roll Aziraphale over and take him again, just to prove that he wanted this, bad chances, fears, and all. But that would be all entirely inappropriate, so he rubbed Aziraphale’s back instead. Kissed him where he could. Sorted through the thoughts in his head until something finally sounded right enough to say.

“I want this.” Not very poetic. Not very beautiful. It was enough, regardless, that Aziraphale smiled into his skin. It was a vague and sad little smile, because Crowley had already done what he feared to do. Aziraphale doubted. He would fix that. Stitch it back together with all the care he could muster. He just had to find the right words, the right touches. Gentle enough, when he slipped his hand down to Aziraphale’s waist and just held there.

“I want to have a kid with you,” he said, and his voice was nothing more than a whisper meant for Aziraphale. No one else. “I want to _give you_ a kid. I want to get you pregnant, to _see_ you pregnant. I’ll bet it’s a good look for you,” and he curled his fingers over Aziraphale’s belly for emphasis. Aziraphale shuddered in response.

“Whatever it is,” Crowley continued. This was the part Aziraphale needed to hear. “Whatever we make, we will love it and take care of it. It’ll be _ours._ ”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale smiled, moved closer so their bodies were flush together. “I want that. Oh, Crowley,” and Aziraphale was rolling over him, straddling his hips and rubbing against him. Crowley could feel how wet he was already. “Put a baby in me, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered.

When Elle stood across the street from the bookshop and looked on, it was clear as day that it hadn’t opened. Not that it wasn’t open, but that it hadn’t opened. Even when it was closed, at the best of times, Aziraphale was still flitting about inside working on something or another. But this time, he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there all day, even though it was precisely three hours after the shop was supposed to open. There wasn’t any real need for her to stop by as often as she did, but she did _like_ Aziraphale. There was nothing wrong with him, not as a person. As an angel, there was a lot wrong with him. The books, though, and the lovely tea he could make—Elle liked those things. Everything had remained all that it was, even after he’d started calling himself Alexandria.

Elle admired his quick thinking, if nothing else. It didn’t change anything. Her like of him didn’t matter, and she didn’t have the slightest ping of guilt when she pulled out her phone to dial a number that wasn’t really a number. It was more a series of symbols on a phone that wasn’t really a phone, but it worked exactly for her needs here. Things were getting dangerous, but like all things, it would only start with a child. And, she could only imagine that wasn’t far off. The shop was closed, and if her projections were anything to say for it, the shop would be closed for a few days.

“Seems something’s happening,” she said. “Shops closed, your angel’s nowhere in sight.”

There was a pause while she listened to the response, then she laughed.

“Course he’s your angel. I’ve got no beef with him. I was on vacation during the whole Apocalypse nonsense.”

Something about how angels don’t take vacation. She was just _lazy._ It only made her laugh more.

“I’ll pop up for a bit and we can discuss the particulars, okay? You can yell at me then.” She hung up without waiting for the response, because the response didn’t matter. They’d open a portal for her regardless of her behavior, because she didn’t belong on earth with the humans.

After he phone call, she stuffed the phone in the back pocket of her jeans and walked off down the street. She sent a quiet prayer of her own, to no one in particular, wishing Aziraphale luck in his little endeavors. He was going to need it, given her projections, and they were always right. It made no sense to root for him, given his current lot. He was losing favor for every moment he pursued this little idea of his, but that didn’t mean Elle hated him for it. She would do as she was commanded, because that’s what she did. But, for everything else, no one needed to know. Though she might root for him, there was no chance that he could win. Not against Them, after all, and there was an ever-growing chance the Other Side was about to get wind of this too. Might it take them a bit longer, anyhow, it would happen.

For a beat, she thought she might stop by that pastry shop Aziraphale seemed to love before she popped off to the proper appointment she’d set. The phone call was just the beginning, and the meeting that followed would be better to set things into motion. What those things were, no one had yet decided. They could play a waiting game for all Elle cared, and that would keep her right here in her current position. Just to watch, just to wait, and to see when the day might come justice was to be enacted. Whatever they agreed upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 𓆏 Oh Yeah Boy now we know what's going on. Kinda. topkek. 𓆏  
>   
> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
>   
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 Can't Stop Me Now Cuz I'm Having A Good Time, Having A Good Time 𓆏
> 
> Chapter 7, the fun stuff is happening in here. Like. The dramatic stuff. You thought it was dramatic before, get ready for more Drama.

Three days, and they finally decided it was enough. Not for the lack of wanting, but rather for the ache of it. Aziraphale’s legs were near useless, and Crowley had a pain going up the length of his spine. It wasn’t bad enough that he couldn’t muster the strength to carry Aziraphale to the shower, though, where they ended up having a bath instead. Not just a bath. The water made everything just a bit easier, and Aziraphale couldn’t help himself when there was time enough between hair washing to crawl into Crowley’s lap and slip right back over him. Crowley scolded him, after they’d both finished, and he was stuck washing Aziraphale’s hair again. But it was a half-hearted scolding that betrayed how happy he was to have his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair. He was going to braid it when they got out, and it would stay this time.

Most of their mornings were slow, but this morning was as slow as they were ever going to get. After the bath, after the long and wondrous time spent exploring each other—but with soap—Crowley sat on the toilet seat and braided Aziraphale’s hair down his spine, where it hung heavy and long. After that, Crowley insisted on being the one to dress Aziraphale. For the time they’d spent wrapped up with each other, Crowley was still proving to be insatiable. He couldn’t keep his hands off Aziraphale, especially not now with the possibility—the _promise_ —that there would be a child in him. Hopefully. As ever kind as he was, then, Aziraphale helped him get dressed. Only after the incessant need to be close did they part long enough for Aziraphale to start some morning tea and for Crowley to start something for breakfast. He made exactly one portion for Aziraphale; he wasn’t hungry.

Then, they did as they always did. Crowley drank his tea in silence while Aziraphale took his time eating and marveling over Crowley’s ability to season things. It was really just salt and pepper, but Aziraphale was a master of this particular kind of praise that Crowley knew wasn’t warranted, but he preened on it anyway. Just to keep the morning going, Crowley even opted to do the dishes while Aziraphale wiped the island down. Once there was nothing that could possibly keep them away from the shop any longer, it was nine in the morning and past opening time. Still, they kissed each other at the front door as Crowley felt around for his keys. He held the door open for Aziraphale, they kissed again, and the bookshop could not be kept waiting a moment longer.

Somehow, though, the drive ended up feeling like hours. They kept the radio quiet, and Aziraphale couldn’t resist the need to hold Crowley’s hand over the middle console. They’d been friends for six thousand years, and even after all that time, they were still learning things about each other. There was more beyond that friendship. All of it was fun, new, and exciting. Positively everything that Aziraphale could have ever hoped for but feared that he would never find. Crowley had felt the same of it, of course, and didn’t have any issue with the hopeless romanticism. A relationship and all the perks were well and long overdue, and even for his demon mask, Crowley could indulge in a few of the sweeter things. Few things were sweeter than Aziraphale, their past few days considered.

That was what led them to complete stillness once Crowley had pulled up alongside the bookshop. He couldn’t park here, but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from giving him a hopeful look and squeezing his hand. Aziraphale had spent long enough away from the shop that it was near imperative that he return, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ to go back. There were too many things spinning around his head that were warm and fuzzy and filled with Crowley. He’d been filled with Crowley and was suddenly quite missing that feeling. The front seat of the Bentley, in front of his shop, was no place to think about that. Maybe in the back seat in an alley one day, but not now. Just a question, for now.

“Would you like to stay at the shop today?” Aziraphale asked, though he scarcely sounded himself. Everything was dialed down, quiet. Afraid, almost.

Crowley thought about the question. He hadn’t planned on staying at the shop, and it was usually a rather boring thing, really. There wasn’t much of ways of entertainment, which meant he usually spent the whole time sleeping. He might find use to help, though, if Aziraphale was still tired. There was no real way that Aziraphale wouldn’t be tired, since they hadn’t taken much of a break. Still.

“What if I come back for lunch and stayed then? I’ll bring you something nice.”

Aziraphale perked up at the mention of lunch, even for having just ate a rather sizable breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and sausage, alongside a sliced apple. He certainly didn’t need more food, but lunch would be in a few hours. Crowley could go home and attend to the plants, then go out and grab something to eat.

“Yes. Yes, that sounds wonderful. You’ll stay after that, yes? I know you just said, but—”

“Yes, I’ll stay,” Crowley leaned across the car to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll stay the rest of the week, if you’d like. There’s not much for me to do elsewhere, anyway.”

“Oh, Crowley, would you?” Aziraphale just melted. A dopey little smile appeared on his face, and Crowley was still close enough to see the little crease of his dimples.

“I would. I will, in fact. As long as you need me to stay with you.”

“Well, I would hope forever, but that might be too much to ask.”

“I do need to worry about the plants, but I promise. As much time as you need, it’s yours. Especially if this little plan works out, yes?” he gave a none too subtle nod towards Aziraphale’s belly. Aziraphale went red for a moment, then nodded. Surely—surely, for no better reason than neither of them was very well versed on how a pregnancy might actually start, it would work. Just because they thought it would work. It was just a matter of when. When and only when.

Aziraphale stole one more kiss before stepping out of the Bentley, and he waved at Crowley for good measure. This felt far too much like the newly wed stage for their complete lack of nuptials, but Aziraphale wasn’t about to let the moment pass, either. He did have to save time to open the shop, though, and he was already dreading what would need to be done. It had been three days since he’d stepped in without any semblance of explanation. Hopefully, things would fall right back into place, and no one had been too put out by his indulgence. At worst, he would have some apologizing to do. That wasn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary, so he found it was rather easy to step into the shop and flip on the lights. There was mail on the floor, which he grabbed, then flipped the little sign to tell the streets he was once again open for business.

As he walked over to the side room, behind the counter, he flipped through the days’ worth of mail. Usually, most of his mail was sad attempts at advertising, which was always thrown directly into the trash. The last few envelops were some bills, which made sense. It was near time for them to come due, anyway, and he would have to be sure to send in the payments. That was something he could do later, and he set the envelopes on his desk instead. He would definitely need to dust the place and straighten a few things, but overall, nothing about his shop had changed. That was the best part about the shop. The routine. The stability. Life with Crowley could be as spontaneous and wonderful as it liked, but the bookshop was always the same. It was one portal to Heaven different, but the same, nonetheless.

Aziraphale had always loved the way it smelled, strangely enough, with all the old books. Everything else was secondary, but the smell. Gabriel had visited the shop once, and Aziraphale was finding it difficult to remember the real reason. All he could recall was the way Gabriel seemed to know that something smelled evil, because something did smell evil. It was Crowley and the amount of time he spent in the bookshop. It meshed with the books and the old wood of the shelves and just stayed, even when he left. That was a relatively nice touch, Aziraphale always thought, this little evil tint among the books. Crowley had probably done it intentionally. Knowing what he now knew about Crowley, that seemed the best explanation. It was more endearing, either way.

The bookshop was home, it had always been home, and it would always be home. Aziraphale had taken so much and worked so hard to open the doors. He’d poured everything into it after that, and his books were a wonderful thing. The silence was equally as wonderfully, especially for what a time he’d been having. A welcome and well-deserved break, he thought, and absentmindedly smoothed a hand over his stomach. If things went according to plan, and they usually did, he wouldn’t be seeing a quiet day like this for a long time. And quiet was beginning to look silent.

By the time Crowley arrived with Chinese, not a single customer had come into the shop. Not even Elle, who was a pleasant part of Aziraphale’s routine. He did miss her, of all things, but still. Crowley was a better surprise, even if he knew he’d be coming by. The surprise was what food he brought, being the Chinese, which Aziraphale cleared a space for on the desk. Crowley set it out and stopped to give him a kiss—because they were doing this now. The domesticity. The openness. It sent a little tingle up Aziraphale’s spine; he was enjoying this. Crowley had always been attentive, but there was something special about the attentiveness now. It was sweeter, somehow.

“Oh, I should put on some tea,” Aziraphale dawned.

“Go on, then. I’ll get things set out. Been busy, has it?” Crowley gestured out to the empty shop.

“Oh, terribly,” Aziraphale replied before ducking around to the back. He started the water, waited a painful few minutes for it to boil, and then returned with brewing teacups to set out on the desk. Crowley had separated out their lunch, which looked to be mostly Aziraphale’s lunch, and was lounging in the armchair.

Aziraphale helped himself to the food after handing Crowley his tea, with a stern warning that he needed to wait for it to finish. Crowley, in kind, set it on the side table and folded his arms across his middle. He looked quite ready to disappear back to sleep for a century, and Aziraphale could respect that. He would be a little put out if it happened, rather, but he still had some respect for the effort Crowley had put in their last few days. They were both tired, and rightfully so. Which meant he should have been fine to eat something, but he’d taken an egg roll for himself and nothing more.

“Crowley, dear, aren’t you the least bit hungry?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley peaked at him from over the top of his glasses. “Angel, we don’t get hungry. I think you’ve acquired an appetite. Gone native, or something. Whatever it was those stuffy pricks up top said,” he waved his hand in the air, brushing them off.

“Oh, well. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose I might have. I am quite hungry. Why,” Aziraphale sat down in his desk chair, “just before you arrived, my stomach growled.”

Crowley cracked a little smile. “Cute, angel.”

“Surely, you must be _something_ , though.”

“Yeah, exhausted. I’m absolutely exhausted,” Crowley sighed out. “I took a nap after I tended to the plants and woke up just in time to grab food. I didn’t want to be late again.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, taking a moment to stir sugar into his tea before looking back. “You shouldn’t exert yourself. If you need to sleep, then you should sleep. I’ll walk tomorrow, yes?”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“I’m going to, and you’ll sleep. Don’t make me sleep in the lounge for it.” That comment stopped them both. Aziraphale went slack-jawed while Crowley’s eyes widened. Sleep wasn’t something that Aziraphale did. Talking about sleeping was something else entirely. He wasn’t talking about spending the night elsewhere to keep from disturbing Crowley in the morning, he was talking about _sleeping_.

“I must have done a real number on you,” Crowley marveled.

“Please, don’t flatter yourself. It was a figure of speech.”

“One you’ve never used!” Crowley accused with the point of his fingers. He was laughing over this, in complete and utter awe of Aziraphale. Crowley _loved_ to sleep, of course. In the same vein as Aziraphale developing an appetite, Crowley had developed a need for sleep. He got tired. He needed naps on occasion. Exhaustion was a rare and new thing, but apparently, he had that too. Before, sleeping had been an indulgence. Just something he did to pass the time or to get away from the fourteenth century, but now it was necessary.

Food seemed to be necessary for Aziraphale. That wasn’t something Crowley would complain about, not when he loved to watch Aziraphale eat and moan over his food like some pampered little princess. It was satisfying to watch. Noodles were an especially satisfying thing to watch, because he slurped them with pursed little lips. Crowley just ate his egg roll and drank the tea straight. Bitter. Just the way he liked it. While Aziraphale took his slow and peaceful time eating and slurping and licking. Crowley eventually shifted in the chair so he could find something else to look at. Now that he’d had a taste of Aziraphale in all the ways that he could have—if only they’d come clean about things sooner—he couldn’t get enough.

Aziraphale noticed his sudden shifting and laughed at him for it. The answer was no, which Crowley expected and respected. He didn’t mind suffering on his own for a bit. The fact that Aziraphale laughed about it, too, somehow made it better. More comfortable. It wasn’t something _wrong_ , just natural. All of the sudden, Crowley really could believe that these feelings were natural and not some demonic lust he’d been carrying around. It was a step in the right direction, at least, and he made a strange little move to toast with his teacup. Aziraphale did the same, and they both smiled.

Crowley did as he promised, after they finished lunch, and stuck around the shop. He cleaned, he straightened, and he counted. He dusted, he organized, and he alphabetized. Whatever it was Aziraphale asked of him, he did it. They did it together, because Crowley wasn’t entirely sure on the mechanics of the shop. He hung around, sure, but it was more of a loitering sort of thing. There had never been a day he’d helped out before. Work wasn’t quite what Crowley would call enjoyable. Work was something he vowed he would never spend a day in his life doing in some traditional version of it, like a job. But with Aziraphale, it was fun. He enjoyed it. Aziraphale would walk behind him and tap his arse from time to time, and in return, he would steal a kiss whenever the chance rose.

The shop stayed relatively quiet. There were a few customers, none of them Elle, and none of them willing to argue with Crowley. They might have been willing to argue Alexandria, were definitely ready to argue Aziraphale—but Crowley didn’t particularly have a track record for losing arguments. It was his look. Something about it certainly was a deterrent to Humans, and that in of itself was a marvel to Aziraphale. Though, Crowley couldn’t quite place how driving off customers was a pointedly sexual thing; Aziraphale was fine to ogle as much as he could.

Eventually, time came to close the shop. Fifteen minutes too early, because Crowley was ready to go, but they closed the shop together. They left together. They got in the car together, and they drove home together. Home wasn’t just a convenient word anymore, either. It felt real. The flat was becoming a home, with its mismatched furniture and over-sized plants. And not just Crowley’s home, but _their_ home. Aziraphale’s. It was overwhelming, and then they were inside the flat, Crowley took Aziraphale by the hand and pulled him in close for a moment. Even if it left a confused little scrunch in Aziraphale’s nose, he had to have him there just a for a second.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale eventually asked, when Crowley let him go and kicked off his shoes.

“Sometimes, I don’t think this is real,” Crowley said, and the sound of his voice surprised them both.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale smiled and kissed him.

When morning arrived, Aziraphale woke Crowley long enough to tell him goodbye and kiss his forehead. Once the door closed, Crowley had fallen straight back to sleep with no attempt at arguing this morning arrangement. He _was_ tired, and he deserved a chance to sleep. Aziraphale was capable of taking care of himself; he’d been doing that for centuries, after all. He made himself a quick spot of cocoa while he fried two eggs and three stripes of bacon. Crowley usually made him something large and extravagant, but it was the advantage of having two sets of hands. With less time and less hands, Aziraphale stuck to something small. It would do enough, and he enjoyed it regardless.

Never quite as good as Crowley could make, but Aziraphale was starting to think that was a conditioned response. Food tasted better when someone else made it for him. It probably had something to do with the _love_ , and how free he was to say that now. That Crowley loved him. It wasn’t just an idle fantasy or wishful thinking. Not anymore. And in return for all of it, of course, Aziraphale figured the least he could do was let Crowley have the time he needed to sleep every now and again. It wasn’t right to hope to monopolize him, especially when all he was asking was for a longer nap. They didn’t particularly have any friends that Crowley was attempting to spend too much time with, so it wasn’t an issue.

However, there was something to be said for those they’d met during the Apocalypse and the time leading up to it, but there hadn’t been much attempt to further that. Aziraphale understood why, of course, because Adam and his friends were children. Anathema and Newton were ready to start a life together; not to mention their only real interaction had been running Anathema down with a car and accidentally stealing her book. As for Madame Tracy and Shadwell, well. Aziraphale figured he didn’t really want to know what they were getting up to, after he’d heard that they’d moved out of the city. The end of the Witchfinder Army was rather impressive, especially when both he and Crowley had learned that there _wasn_ _’t_ an Army. No hard feelings, though, because they never had to interact with Shadwell again.

Probably for the best, given the unfortunate discorporation Aziraphale suffered for it.

Discorporating probably wasn’t the best thought to have on his short walk to the shop, but Aziraphale had to entertain the idea. Angels and demons were immortal enough, but bodies only lasted as long as they did. It would be a surefire way to send them both back to Heaven and Hell, respectfully. They would have no second chances and no new bodies, and of that, Aziraphale was sure. It made crossing the street suddenly a bit scarier, and Aziraphale found himself looking twice before he did.

If things went according to plan, and as he unlocked the door to the shop, he sincerely hoped that they would, he would have to worry about another potential discorporation. If that’s what would happen. All at once, he realized that they wouldn’t be sure of anything about this child until it was there. Until it appeared, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to return it. On the slight chance that it wasn’t anything supernatural—Crowley and he just canceling out, if that’s how this really worked—discorporation wasn’t the proper word. It was _death._

After that thought, Aziraphale immediately thought no more. They didn’t even have a child, not yet. There was no use in dwelling over the what-ifs and potentials of the future. It was just as simple as he didn’t know what the future would have in store for him. For either of them. For the three of them, maybe, and he found himself idly touching over his stomach again when the first customer came in. A lovely little woman, she was, and she did just happen to notice Aziraphale’s hesitant little movement.

“Expecting, are you?” the woman asked before Aziraphale could even welcome her in.

“Hoping,” he corrected, and it felt good to admit it out loud. The woman let out a pale little laugh with her fingers curled in front of her gaudy red lipstick.

“It’s nice to hope. It took my husband and me nearly a year.” Then she was off to browse, and Aziraphale’s skin paled.

A year. An entire _year._ He didn’t want to wait a year. Something was egging in the back of his mind that this needed to happen now, and if it didn’t, well. He wasn’t sure what the consequence would be, just that there would be one. It was a foolish anxiety. A consequence was everything between dying and being mildly put out that they hadn’t been able to conceive. And what a thought that was, one that he really didn’t like. While he was no expert on conception and birth, he knew it wasn’t some magical immediate thing. Even after they conceived, there would be _time._ Maybe that’s what she’d meant by the year. A year minus nine months for the actual development, and that made Aziraphale feel slightly better for it.

Except there was one thing he was sure of. Their baby would not be human. Nine months may not be the correct timing.

The woman did eventually ask about a book, and Aziraphale was far too distracted to come up with a good excuse. He took three seconds to stare at the book before he realized he wasn’t too attached to it, and it was no signed first edition. He let her take it at a hefty price, which she accepted, and he slumped down at his desk a moment later. He wondered if Crowley was awake or still curled up asleep without a care in the world. Or a care in the world far removed; the nightmares. Aziraphale remembered the nightmares, well enough. Nothing to be done about anything, though, and that was the issue. Everything was a whole pile of wait-and-see. To wait and see if there would be customers. If there would be a baby. If Crowley’s nightmares would end. If this and if that.

Aziraphale eventually sighed and attempted to thumb through a novel. When that didn’t work, he tried a non-fiction. When that didn’t work, he laid forward on the table and suddenly thought that he wasn’t feeling well. Angels didn’t get sick. Demons didn’t get sick either, though he’d heard they were quite adept at playing sick. Something about temptations, or whatever it was. Aziraphale scarcely remembered much he’d learned in Heaven, not when Crowley had turned to be everything those teachings were not. Which made him wonder if those teachings weren’t a lie.

The bell rang on the front door in the same moment that Aziraphale wrenched back in self-scolding. He should _not_ be questioning Heaven and Heaven’s teachings. They belonged to God, and he certainly wasn’t going to question Her. He wouldn’t even speculate what She had planned, because that wasn’t his job. He wasn’t meant to understand, so he wouldn’t. He went to the front of the shop and greeted the customer with as much jolly as he could muster, even after finding that it wasn’t Elle. If he had the extra cash, maybe he might have even offered Elle a job at the bookshop. Just so he didn’t have to sit in the silence with his thoughts.

A better alternative would be to learn to control his thoughts, though, and he knew that. Knew that, but he didn’t _like_ that. Self-control had only ever been his forte once, and that was in spending thousands of years denying Crowley. A decidedly bad use of his limited self-control, and now he was rather without it. The thoughts would continue. _He_ would continue. For everything that was falling down around inside him.

Eventually, the shop closed, and Aziraphale stopped by the pastry shop on his way back to the flat. When he arrived back, Crowley was perched up at his throne with the news playing in the background. He greeted Aziraphale with a wave over the back of the chair, and when Aziraphale rounded it, he saw that Crowley was quite deeply engrossed in a book. Of all things, a book. Aziraphale blinked, took a bite of his pastry, and blinked again. Crowley hadn’t even looked up at him. There was no welcome and no kiss. Just. Whatever was going on right now with Crowley’s nose in a book. Crowley didn’t read. He _could_ read, of course. It would be rather foolish if he’d lived six thousand and two years on earth to not be able to read. But he didn’t. Not books, anyway. Menus and wine labels, certainly, but not books.

“Crowley?”

“A moment,” he replied. Aziraphale watched as he seemingly finished a passage, moved the little fabric bookmark in place, then closed the book with the back cover up. He looked at Aziraphale then, smiled, and rose to kiss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, angel. Good day at the shop?”

“Perfectly alright, yes. What were you doing?”

“Well,” and Crowley seemed to go a bit red when he flipped the book to show the cover, “thought I’d get a head start.”

Aziraphale fell into a rather silly looking smile when he read the title. A parenting book. “Oh, Crowley. You’ll be wonderful.”

Crowley just shrugged. “I’d read one on pregnancy earlier, but I’m not sure how much a human’s perspective on that is going to help us.”

“Yes, well. Better to have the barest idea than no idea at all, I would say.”

“That was my thought, but I read it, and everything seemed rather messy. I don’t think morning sickness and hormonal changes really _apply_ to an angel,” and he regarded Aziraphale with one raised eyebrow. “Unless you meant it when you said _authentic_ and you’ve acquired all of these fun little things.”

“Oh, heavens, no. I didn’t even know,” Aziraphale admitted.

Aziraphale eventually opted to just perching on the edge of the throne with Crowley and looking over the book with him, because really, it was something they would both benefit from reading. Probably. Not that parenting was something so straightforward. The both of them had been around humans enough to know that—children were an every changing thing in the world. Human children were one thing, and they weren’t capable of having a human child. Not being human and all tended to cause that. It was a start, regardless, and a start was a good thing.

At the end of the day, everything happened the same as it always did. Aziraphale curled up with Crowley and they went to sleep. They woke in the morning; Crowley made breakfast while Aziraphale tended to the tea. They drove to the shop in the Bentley. Aziraphale opened, and Crowley went about his day. A comfortable, pleasant little routine.

A small hiccup in the routine appeared about one-thirty, when Aziraphale had reached to a particularly high shelf to grab a book that was in the wrong spot. There was a sudden jolt of something. It wasn’t quite pain, but it certainly didn’t feel nice, and it rain from the tip of his toes to the end of his fingertips. He dropped the book back onto the shelf and recoiled like he’d been shocked. But it was _warm_ whatever it was, a pleasant sort of radiation that probably wasn’t _right,_ but it was alright. Because after the moment it took to run its course through every atom of his body, Aziraphale understood what it meant. He had to call Crowley immediately.

It was a rather unnecessary scramble to the phone where Aziraphale nearly tripped over himself, but he caught onto the edge of the counter and took a moment to breathe. Anything but panic could go through that receiver, when he called, because he wasn’t in danger. Danger would set Crowley off, and that wasn’t the point. Aziraphale just needed him at the shop. Immediately. Without putting anyone in danger. So, Aziraphale took another deep and unnecessary breath until his fingers stopped shaking and he could properly grab the phone. He spun the rotary until the ringing started, and it only dawned on them then that he could have used his cell phone. Crowley had talked him into it, though he didn’t use it much. The shop phone worked fine enough, and the rest of the time, he was with Crowley anyway.

“Angel?” Crowley answered. Caller ID was something Aziraphale would never get used to. That, and answering machines. The old tape one that Crowley used to have was packed away somewhere in a box, in a closet, now. Too much Hastur.

“Crowley, yes. Crowley—could you possible—no, I mean. Are you busy?”

“Not particularly?” it was a question, not a statement. Crowley heard three words and immediately turned concerned.

“Could you possibly stop by the shop? It’s rather important.”

“You’re alright?”

“Yes, yes. Quite alright. Quite fine. I need to see you, if at all possible.” He could hear the jingle of keys in the background. Aziraphale smiled to himself.

“Very possible. Be there in a bit.”

The time of day was unfortunate, because it would take Crowley longer than normal to get here no matter what he did. If he walked, it would take longer for the bit about walking, and if he drove—which the keys implied he was intending to drive—there was traffic. Either way, Aziraphale had near fifteen minutes before Crowley would arrive through the door, and scarcely anything would have him hold in his excitement for too long. The original panic had subsided. Now it was excitement. Excitement and an unparalleled feeling of warmth that spread through him.

Reality came back when the bell at the door rang, though, and Aziraphale realized he was standing there stupidly holding a phone with nothing but the dial tone ringing on. He set the phone back down and moved around to better see who had entered; the day could not get better, he decided. Elle had just walked through the front door with her hair all done up in a long, tightly curled ponytail. There was a seeming moment of hesitation where she leaned back towards the door, then shot Aziraphale a smile when she waved.

“How nice to see you,” Aziraphale marveled. “It’s been a while.”

“Long while,” Elle’s voice was light and happy. “Shop wasn’t open for a few days. You get sick or something?”

“Oh, no—nothing of the sort. It was a family emergency,” which wasn’t a lie. Just a strange way to say that he’d spent three days getting fucked sideways on the slight hope of a pregnancy. Aziraphale coughed.

“Hoping everything’s alright then, yeah?”

“Yes, quite. It was a false alarm, as they say.”

“As they say,” Elle smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile either, where her eyes would squint up, and Aziraphale could tell she was happy. This smile started and stopped at the lips, while her eyes told a story Aziraphale couldn’t place.

All at once, he realized there was no one else in the shop but him and Elle. That had never bothered him before, but she didn’t seem particularly keen on sitting down and taking another book. It was rather something more primal. Her gaze was that of a predator, and when she stalked about one edge of the open area, Aziraphale felt near compelled to stay on the opposite side of her. Only, there wasn’t much of a place for him to go. He stayed by the desk, instead, where the phone was. Just in case. Then, he shot her a rather nervous smile.

“Are you interested in anything particular today?” he asked.

“I am. One thing in particular, in fact.”

“Might I help you locate it?”

“Oh, I’ve already located it. Thanks for the offer though.”

Aziraphale gulped, coughed, and tried to look anywhere else in the room but her. It was hard. Even for her size, she seemed to take up the entire room with an aura Aziraphale couldn’t place. Her presence was larger than the room itself, and it kept Aziraphale pinned exactly where he was. At the desk, his hands gripped into the wood to prevent them from shaking. He had thirteen minutes, at the most, before Crowley would arrive. Thirteen long and painful minutes with Elle. A name he suspected wasn’t her name, not really. No different than Anthony. Just a name to appear well in the eyes of humans, because humans had a way. Outsiders of that way were questioned, and in the past, even burned.

Elle stopped directly across the room for Aziraphale, nothing but open space between them. When she raised her hand, she snapped. Nothing changed, not immediately, but Aziraphale could feel it. To the outside world, nothing had changed. But that was exactly what changed. Anyone who looked into the shop would see a bookkeeper and her customers flitting about as they always did, with books and refused sales. Aziraphale would see Elle, standing across from him with a rather sharp look on her face and _magic_ in her hands. How could he not have known?

“I’ve been quite interested in you, Aziraphale,” she said.

“I believe you’ve got me confused for—”

“Cut the crap. One little human said one little thing, and you were so focused on that, you didn’t look right under your nose. Change your appearance all you want, principality, but Heaven knows,” and she poked her own nose for measure, a rather amusing little gesture. Aziraphale cracked a nervous and forced smile.

“I rather thought Heaven was done with me,” he admitted, his voice small.

“Done with you? Because you pulled that little stunt with the hellfire? No,” Elle shook her head. “Biding their time, more like it. For the right method to return. Maybe we can’t erase you, but we can do _something_ about you.”

Aziraphale contained his relief, just slightly. They hadn’t figured out that he had never been in Heaven, not two years ago. The only reason Aziraphale had survived the hellfire was because he was down in Hell, splashing holy water at a window where he knew no demons would actually get hurt. Heaven hadn’t figured that out. Heaven had decided to find a different path.

“We’ve been watching you, and now, well,” she pointedly gestured towards Aziraphale’s stomach with a grimace. “Things are a bit more pressing. Best to do away with you now than face the consequences of _that_.”

She looked disgusted. She looked positively revolted in every way that she could look it. In the way that pricked every nerve on Aziraphale’s body; it _hurt._ Five minutes prior, when he had tripped over himself to call Crowley, it was to bring him to the shop—to tell him that it had worked. Aziraphale could _feel_ something. Something that very much felt like he was pregnant, and they would get their child. Only, they wouldn’t. Because Elle was here with a disgusted look on her face, telling him with every subtle thing she could imagine, that he was carrying an abomination in Heaven’s eyes.

“Who are you?” Aziraphale near whimpered. “What do you want?”

“I’m surprised you never figured it out, but I guess they did say you went native, or some shit. I never cared for the prickly assholes up there. Gabriel’s a stickler, yeah?” Elle smirked. “He called _specifically_ for me, though. You have to understand. This is my _job._ ” She stepped forward and something long, sharp, seemed to spill directly out of her fingers. “I deal with bad angels, Aziraphale. Fallen ones, usually, but you. Well,” Elle laughed, “you might as well be one.”

He hadn’t Fallen. Aziraphale knew that—he hadn’t Fallen. God hadn’t forsaken him yet, even if the rest of the angels had.

“I rather thought you’d gone on holiday, Raguel,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Permanently.”

“Oh, no. Never. I’m not out here to be some nasty native human, you know,” and she laughed. “They called me back for the big _Plan_ , you know. The one that you and your boyfriend ruined. But you won’t ruin this one. We planned for that, too. You and your— _thing_ —will just have to go.”

Aziraphale had no way to protect himself, but he made a rather uselessly protective hold around his stomach anyway, just at the time that Elle started to step. A heavy pounding on the door stopped them both—she’d locked it. Aziraphale realized all at once, in horror, that she’d locked the door. Crowley was on the other side of that door, seven minutes early, pounding. Because Elle had locked them in here and Crowley out there. She seemed rather pleased with herself at it too.

“Did you think I didn’t know he’d be coming? You’ve got some important news for him, don’t you? That he’s finally gotten to defile an angel.”

“It’s not like that—you _know_ it isn’t like that.”

“You think it was in God’s Great Plan for an angel to bear some demon’s spawn?” Raguel—it wasn’t Elle; Aziraphale had to remind himself—smiled at him with a fiendish little smirk. “Disgusting. You don’t even deserve to call yourself an angel with that _thing_ squirming around inside you. It’ll be hideous. A monster—”

“Angel! Open the damn door!” Crowley pounded again, his fists on the glass. If he only pressed hard enough—

“To Hell with him,” Raguel hissed, “literally. If you think Hell doesn’t know about this—if you think Crowley will escape what’s coming to him—”

“Please don’t do this,” Aziraphale begged. “I promise, we’ll go. We won’t interfere with anything, not again.”

“You’ll have no choice, if you bring that horrid monster into this world. Better to just let me take care of it. I might even spare your life,” she stalked closer. “You just have to let me kill the kid.”

Aziraphale sucked in a tight breath after that. Surely, his lot wasn’t supposed to be killing kids. Crowley believed that thousands of years ago, before the flood. Aziraphale still believed it even after, when they couldn’t save all of the children. Now, thousands of years later, Heaven had sent Raguel to deal with him. Not him, specifically, but a child who hadn’t existed fifteen minutes ago. Still didn’t really exist as anything more than a bundle of unfinished cells, but Raguel had ways to deal with things like this. If she didn’t, Gabriel wouldn’t have called for her.

“ _Please_ ,” Aziraphale tried again. He’d backed himself completely against the desk, as if that was going to do anything for him. Raguel stalked closer still, a nasty look on her face. She believed in her duty, she had to. Whatever they had told her resonated so deeply that she believed killing a child who wasn’t even a child yet would be the proper way to end whatever it was she was talking about. Another Apocalypse, if she was to be believed. The crazed look in her eye had Aziraphale believing her, without a doubt. Inadvertently, she’d also told him just how they could prevent it.

The baby she was trying to kill.

“Just hold still, Aziraphale. They didn’t say _you_ had to die, just that demon’s spawn. If you’re _still_ , you can walk out of this and live the rest of your life with him. Please.” She was genuine all at once, just a few steps now from her attack. “I _like_ you, Aziraphale. I don’t want to kill you.”

“If you think that means I’ll let you kill my child—”

“That’s not up for negotiation—”

Fire. There was a sudden burst of _fire_ that wasn’t—it wasn’t right. It wasn’t hot, but neither was it cold, and it burst through the door like magic before disappearing and leaving everything fine in its wake. Whatever it was, it was enough that Raguel had jumped away from it with _fear_ in her eyes. Hellfire had a heat indescribable, but that fire had been nothing and everything all at once. Even so, Raguel seemed terrified of it. She held her ground when Crowley sauntered into the shop. Raguel’s barrier had been broken where Crowley stepped, and he looked angry.

His glasses had broken in the blast, and his eyes—his eyes had bled yellow and angry. There was a growl from his throat that sparked _danger_. For the second time in his life, Aziraphale was frightened of Crowley. Of this Crowley. A Crowley who he didn’t really know. A Crowley with fire in his fingertips and venom dripping from his fangs.

“Get the _fuck_ out,” Crowley hissed. “I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but if you think I won’t rip your head from your shoulders here—”

Raguel’s blade disappeared as fast as it had bled out, before. She stared at Crowley, and Crowley stared right back. Neither one of them seemed ready to back down. Not with the stakes, but Crowley didn’t _know_ the stakes. He knew that Aziraphale was in danger, and that was all he cared about. The baby was still a secret, to him, and Raguel knew that. Her stakes were higher, knowing, but still. All she did was sigh and drop her hands. She spared a glance between the two of them and looked rather more defeated than she was. Against Crowley, she had a certain chance of winning and getting everything Heaven wanted. More, in fact, if she managed to do away with Crowley and Aziraphale in the same swoop. She’d done nothing of the sort. She’d given up.

“Get out of here,” she said. “Leave London and hide. I won’t give you another free pass,” and this time, she stalked right up to Crowley and grabbed the collar of his jacket. Immediately, he grabbed her wrist. “If you think you scare me, snake boy, think again. I’ve been itching to get my hands on you since the Garden.”

“Good luck,” he hissed at her, and they both wrenched away from the other.

Raguel disappeared, and the shop returned to normal. Crowley returned to normal, too, and immediately dashed across the shop to take Aziraphale into his arms. There was a long moment between them of silence, where Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him steady, and surely, it was. If Crowley hadn’t managed to break through the barrier—and Aziraphale would have to ask how that was possible, later—Raguel would have killed more than Crowley knew. Because Crowley didn’t know yet. Aziraphale couldn’t find the words, either. At the first part of his lips, the tears started to fall before he even knew what was happening.

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley closed the shop and locked the doors. He ushered Aziraphale to the side room where he sat him in the armchair, kneeling down in front of him to cup his face in his hands and brush at the tears rolling out. Crowley shushed him, wiped his eyes, and wedged himself in between Aziraphale’s knees so that they would be close. For a brief moment, he wished they’d never moved the couch.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, “you’re okay. You’re alright, she’s gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Crowley—Crowley,” Aziraphale was shaking, his hands still balled up in Crowley’s jacket. Crowley hadn’t pulled him away, and he wouldn’t dare to do so.

Crowley shushed him, “it’s alright. I’m here. No one can hurt you when I’m here. I’m glad you called me when you did, if you hadn’t—”

“That’s not—that wasn’t—she wasn’t—” Aziraphale nearly choked on his own words and ended with a hiccup. Crowley rose up ever slightly that he could hold Aziraphale again, tightly against his chest. They stayed like that until Crowley’s thighs began to ache, and he had to drop back down. Aziraphale was still crying, but he wasn’t hiccupping. He wasn’t choking. Just tears. Crowley could manage with tears.

“One thing at a time, angel,” Crowley whispered. “I love you. So much, you know? I would never let anyone hurt you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale managed. “I know. I know.”

Crowley just wiped at his tears until Aziraphale gathered a hold of himself. It took a long few minutes, but eventually, Aziraphale’s hold let up, and he placed his hands in his lap rather nervously. Then, they folded over his stomach much in the way they had been when Raguel was still here. Crowley looked between Aziraphale and his hands, waiting. Wondering. Biting into his lip as everything that could possibly be wrong ran through his mind—what if he’d been too late?

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice was a shadow, “I’m here now. You can talk to me.”

“I want to go home,” Aziraphale replied.

“We will, when you’re ready. You can barely stand, angel, please. Talk to me. I’ll listen to anything you’ve got to say.”

“Heaven knows. Heaven knows what we did. They don’t like it.”

“What do you mean? Aziraphale—”

Nothing more than a whisper, nothing more than a breath, “I’m pregnant, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at him. Stared a bit longer. And stared until Aziraphale was fidgeting in his seat, eager for Crowley to say _something._ Crowley did manage to do just that and said something rather stupid.

“How do you know?”

“I can just _feel_ it. I don’t understand it myself, but I am. I’m _pregnant_ , Crowley. With _our_ child,” Aziraphale gripped his hands as tight as he could manage into Crowley’s jacket again, on his shoulders and near his neck. “Heaven _knows_. Elle, she’s—Elle’s not Elle. She’s been spying. She knew who I was, said that Gabriel sent her. They want to—they want to _kill_ our child, Crowley—” the tears started up again.

“They won’t,” Crowley responded in kind, angry. “They won’t lay a _finger_ on you, not while I’m here. I don’t care who they send. God Herself can come down here, and I’ll—”

“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale begged. “Please, don’t say that,” and he fell forward to wrap his arms around Crowley, a litany of ‘please’ on his lips. It was a bitter thing, how Aziraphale still believed in Heaven and the things that they did. Crowley had lost that believe so long ago that he barely remembered what it felt like, but it was a bright and blinding thing in Aziraphale still. Something he wouldn’t take from him if at all possible. But that didn’t seem too possible, not if Heaven had done what he’d said they had.

Raguel was an archangel. She’d been gone for the Apocalypse and no one asked questions, because no one ever asked questions about Raguel. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and God was happy to let her. Her name meant ‘friend of God’, and it rang true in every moment. Stories had reached as far down as Hell about funny little moments where God and Raguel could be seen drinking tea at proper time near the Throne of Heaven—not that Crowley had ever believed something so ridiculous, but he wouldn’t _not_ believe it, either.

One thing that stood out was Raguel’s job. She dealt with Fallen Angels, with demons, and with _evil_.

“She said it would be a monster,” Aziraphale seemed to sense Crowley’s fear, and did absolutely nothing to help. Crowley was determined to help himself, then, and stood up. He pulled Aziraphale out of the chair with him and kept a firm hold on his forearms, near painful, to ground him away from Heaven and Raguel—just for a moment.

“Listen to me, Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped. “I don’t care what this baby is. It will be _ours._ Heaven can’t take that from us.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because _fuck_ Heaven and _fuck_ their nasty politics. Anyone who’d come all the way down here to slaughter a child in its mother’s womb is—” he was seething, he could feel it, like fire rising off of his back. Aziraphale looked— _Satan_ , Aziraphale looked terrified of it. Crowley just held tighter to him.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, you have my word. If Heaven wants to kill our child, good luck finding it.”

“Where will we go?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley just shook his head.

“Leave that to me. Effective immediately, your shop is closed. Pack your books, angel. We have to go, now. She’s given us a chance, and we have to take it.” Crowley let go of his arms and stalked out to the middle of the shop. He looked around, and the world felt like it was spinning around him. Then, he decided a miracle wouldn’t hurt. Heaven knew exactly where they were, and they had no reason not to. They hadn’t tried to hide, and they hadn’t left. He snapped his fingers and a stack of flattened moving boxes appeared. He knew Aziraphale preferred to handle the books by hand and not by magic, so he would respect that.

“Come on, angel. Let’s go home—”

“Do you know who that was?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly, standing helplessly near the counter.

Crowley nodded.

“How did you—how did you _do_ that? The fire. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, and he meant it. Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath, but he didn’t press forward. If Crowley knew something, he wouldn’t lie about it. Not to him.

He wished that things had been different. He wished that Raguel had never shown up, so Crowley could’ve sauntered in and heard the news in the atmosphere he deserved it in. A happy one. Crowley would’ve cried, Aziraphale knew. He would have been so happy for the news that he would have cried, right there in the shop. They would have held each other, danced, and Aziraphale would have proposed a toast. Crowley would immediately tell him that alcohol was off the table for the length of the pregnancy, and Aziraphale would smile at him. Instead. Raguel had been there, and Crowley had been ready to tear her limb from limb if required. Aziraphale was left frightened, and Crowley was seething with a rage that Aziraphale had never seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)   
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> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I bring to thee, another chapter 𓆏
> 
> I'm about to high tail it across the country for Moving Day, so i wanted to get another chapter out before i fell off the face of the earth, for a bit. I don't know how hectic things will be, since I need to find a new job and all. But, we'll see how it goes. Hopefully, well.
> 
> Please enjoy 𓆏

Aziraphale had wanted to go home, but when the offer came, he declined. He needed to pack the books, and he needed time to himself. Fear was still very much coursing through his veins, and it wasn’t just fear of Raguel, anymore, whom he trusted to keep her word and leave them this chance. What she would do, he didn’t know, but he knew she would be gone. No. Aziraphale was afraid of Crowley and the anger he was trying very hard to repress under the scales growing over his neck and his chest. It was a power that Aziraphale had never seen, not in all the thousands of years they’d known each other, and he didn’t have any desire to see more of it. Crowley had frightened him, and without even so much as a word on the subject, Crowley knew he’d done so.

That was why he didn’t protest when Aziraphale opted to stay at the shop for the night and pack. If he was diligent, he could have all of his books categorized, logged, and in boxes by the time Crowley came by in the morning. A clear invitation, which settled the growing discord rummaging about in Crowley’s gut. Aziraphale just needed the night to himself, that was all, to let things settle. He didn’t _hate_ Crowley; he didn’t think any different of him; he was just frazzled. An understandable state, and Crowley left him to his business without so much as a good-bye kiss or a hug. Just an offhanded wave as he tried to keep himself together; masking over the anger now was a dark and terrible shroud of _thought._

Crowley hated thinking.

It was all he had left, without Aziraphale in the car with him. All he could do was think about everything, and everything all at once. There was no small detail, no little thing to focus on—just the whole. The whole of it was frightening and coiled up in his back where his scars were _aching._ A burn through his spine that made him horridly uncomfortable. The second he walked into the flat, he was ripping his shirt off his body and leaving it, and his jacket and tie, to decorate the floor behind him as he stomped.

Aziraphale was pregnant. Aziraphale was carrying their child. And their child had almost died, not minutes old and not even _alive_ , yet. It had nearly been taken from him. Raguel was to blame, Crowley knew, but Raguel was like the rest of the mindless bunch in Heaven. Always following orders, always trying to do God’s bidding. If Raguel had been ordered to slaughter something that hadn’t even developed a shape, then the order had come from somewhere. Crowley had a thought as to where, and their name was not Gabriel. The idea made it even worse, that God Herself had ordered something so base as a hit. That God would really think to take another child’s blood on Her hands, but the color must have been something beautiful. She’d done it before.

She did it every day. Each year progressing into something more and more creative for killing children. There were the common and quiet things like starvation, malnutrition, and elements. Just dying because they were too young to do anything else, and Crowley could forgive that to a measure. It was the more creative ways that he wanted to condemn to burn farther down than even Hell could provide. It was the cancer, the bugs and parasites whose sole purpose was to burrow into children’s eyes and blind them forever, to eat the food they consumed and kill them slower. Murder, then, and kidnapping. Gross old men and women who stole up children, tortured them, and left them in pretty clothes on the side of the street in some mock apology for their crimes. It got grosser every year, the things Crowley watched on the television, and nothing was baser than knowing all of it was God’s creation.

Of course, She would cover it up with free will. She’d created free will, though, hadn’t She? And condemned it. Threw Crowley into the dirt like a discarded plaything—he didn’t _want_ to remember. He shouldn’t remember. Couldn’t. It was a bad thing to know where he came from and what he’d been, but he could feel it prickling up at the back of his neck. Trying to crawl through and force him into it. To remember how She hadn’t just condemned free will but condemned _him._ Eternal damnation, unforgivable. And for what?

Children didn’t deserve to die.

Crowley kicked into the chair as he walked by, grumbling to himself, because he was _angry._ He’d be angry until he sorted through this whole thing, but how could he protect Aziraphale if Aziraphale would end up terrified of him? There had to be a happy medium somewhere between the anger at God and his desperate, innate need to keep Aziraphale safe. And their baby. It was all about that child, now, and Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way. Which meant, first and foremost, that he needed to calm down. He needed to remember how to breathe, how to be aware of himself, and how not to be covered in scales. After that, he would focus on that kid, for however long he needed to. They needed a place to go, and money would be no object. If he put his mind to it, he could find something before he brought Aziraphale _home._

At the computer, he immediately started looking. He was a demon; he didn’t need humans and their real estate policies. With enough cash and just the right flick of a demon miracle, he could do just about anything he wanted. And miracles didn’t matter anymore, because Heaven and Hell knew where they were. Clearly, the life of no magic hadn’t meant anything. Elle had been frequenting the shop far before Aziraphale’s first _big_ miracle, so it didn’t matter. Even after they moved, even without miracles, it would take a bit. That bit was all they needed, because once that baby was born. Whatever it was, whatever it would be, Crowley knew they were afraid of it. There was no other reason to come breaking down doors to kill a child who didn’t exist.

But a child who would exist, if Crowley had anything to say about it. They’d need a place—a house, Crowley decided without further preamble—that was big enough for a child. Two rooms seemed too small, but three would give them something extra. Not that he wanted a huge house to begin with, given their current situation. The shop was small, the flat was small, the house could be small. It just needed to be big enough to support three of them. It would be a long, long search for something just right. Time was the object of importance here, and Crowley didn’t have any. He didn’t know how much time Raguel would buy them, if she would keep her word, which left him there.

He stared at the computer, unblinking, for hours. He clicked around, he sent e-mails, he answered phone calls. He didn’t need an _agent_ to do this. He just needed to pick a couple of houses and show Aziraphale for his opinion. Buying a house like this was a bad and stupid thing for them to do, but he had to do it. Besides, if they were a week away from going back to miracles, then money was of absolutely no object. Now that they were less than affiliated, there would be no strongly worded noes from Heaven anyway, so Aziraphale would be fine. Crowley had always been fine, because frivolous demonic miracles were just what they did, demons. For certain, they would not make the coming months any easier, and not the coming years.

There was a time, long ago, that Crowley didn’t look more into the future than a week or two. He lived for the moment, because that was where his job was best done. As he grew older, though, and watched time pass around him, the job became less and less fun. That was when he started looking to the future and doing evil works that seemed less than inconvenient, at the time. It was more exciting, and at the end of the day, it was his own little rebellion. He got away with not sending souls directly to Hell, and he stood up for and cherished that damnable thing called free will.

It dawned on him, around midnight, that he should take Aziraphale to a doctor. Maybe not immediately, but eventually, and soon. That baby was of a strange nature, and there was no telling just what they would need to look out for. At least, if he had something to _look_ at, he’d have a better idea. It wasn’t at all for the natural born curiosity of a would-be father, wanting to see the baby. No, this was purely utilitarian. Crowley told himself, anyway, as he clicked out of a tab he’d wandered onto looking at cribs. Those were not houses.

By three in the morning, he’d found four separate houses he liked well enough to show them off to Aziraphale. They all had big yards, and one had a fence built like a wall, instead, covered in ivy. They were all rather old-fashioned looking houses, small like cottages, with chimneys on the roof. He thought well on what Aziraphale would like for not only himself, but also the kid. Crowley’s sense of style wasn’t so much kid friendly as it was sharp and dangerous. If Aziraphale wanted him to get rid of every piece of furniture he owned, then so be it. As long as it wasn’t the bed, he’d be okay with that. The yard was all he was looking at, anyway, and not just for how fun it might be to take the kid outside every once and awhile.

Crowley had been mulling over Aziraphale’s suggestion for days, now, that a real and proper garden would suit him. One that was outside and not just mashed together through hanging and standing pots. Still, he would leave it to Aziraphale’s final decision; there were other things he needed to look over. Packing was of no consequence; he could do that with a rather forward snap of his fingers. He might even be able to find new furniture like that, too, but he didn’t know anything about child-sized things. That included furniture, clothes, dishes, and toys. From one search, he learned quite well about the abundance of resources dedicated to exactly his type of ignorance. ‘Expecting, first-time parent’, a lot of it seemed to be called.

By seven sharp, Crowley hadn’t taken one lick of sleep, and was answering his phone on instinct rather than looking at it closely. When he answered it, he’d just assumed it was another place he’d contacted about one of the houses, and his greeting was stuffy and professional. Which made for a rather funny following seconds, as it was Aziraphale who snickered on the other end of the line, seemingly in a much better mood than he had been. It was hard not to cheer up when one got to spend an entire night flipping through a wonderful collection of books and being filled with this unparalleled warmth that didn’t belong to him. Aziraphale had so much to share, but he had to see Crowley first. And first.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Aziraphale—I’m so sorry about yesterday,” Crowley said, before he’d even thought longer about what he was apologizing for. Aziraphale just chuckled in return.

“It’s quite alright. I can hardly blame you for being so protective. It is quite a _Fatherly_ thing to do, isn’t it?”

Crowley snorted. He could almost see Aziraphale standing there, looking overly proud of himself and minding a soft touch over the curve of his belly. It was just a thing he’d started doing. Aziraphale had always been a bit plump, and it made it quite impossible to even imagine he might be pregnant. And it would keep it that way past the time he might have otherwise started showing; not that Crowley minded. _If_ he started showing, honestly. For all they knew, the kids wouldn’t have _bodies_ until they were born. Messy business, supernatural birth.

“Well, I have packed the shop,” Aziraphale said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I did use a little miracle here or there to help out. I wanted to ensure it was done as fast as possible.”

“Yeah, no. That’s fine. Listen, do you need me to come get you?”

“Yes, I would very much appreciate that. Perhaps we could stop by the bakery this morning?”

Crowley was getting out of his chair, then, while they chatted. He’d actually forgotten about stripping half naked when he’d arrived home the previous night, but finding his clothes again wasn’t particularly hard. He put Aziraphale on speaker while he dressed and found his keys again, and they talked of idle things. Aziraphale talked about the customers he’d had to explain things too and his rather strong relief that Elle hadn’t returned—Raguel, really. That it seemed she meant to keep her word.

“And the kid?” Crowley asked, stepping into the driver’s side of the car.

Aziraphale laughed and denied his curiosity. Any talk of their child, they would do in person. Crowley was okay with that, especially when _touching_ was mentioned. Now, from the books he’d read, there was positively no reason for this child to be quite as _around_ as it seemed to be. Aziraphale could feel it, and that warmth he felt was from the child. He’d describe it as a ball of light, more than anything, though surely it would grow some type of corporation. It would be rather unfortunate to birth a metaphysical being into existence instead of a child, because Aziraphale was looking forward to the child part of having a child. That was when he felt need to mention that he was certain he would be able to _nurse_ the child properly.

“Oh,” Crowley choked and nearly ran directly through the cross walk. He managed, though, and stayed on course without running the man down.

“Does that…bother you?” Aziraphale asked.

“No! No, no, not at all I just—a bit distracted about it, I suppose.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, warm and bright, “oh, dear. I didn’t expect that to be the response.”

Crowley didn’t so much answer as make a strange noise into the receiver, shrugging and wobbling his head a bit at the notion. He hadn’t really expected to be taken aback by it either, but the sudden onslaught of images, all with Aziraphale carefully cradling an infant to his breast, well. Crowley couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

“Have you thought about it?” Crowley asked, taking a turn. He could see the bookshop, but that didn’t mean he had to hang up. “What you want?”

“As in what?”

“Boy or a girl.”

“Oh, well. I suppose it wouldn’t really matter,” Aziraphale sounded a little nervous about the question. Crowley pulled into a parking spot on the side of the street and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m here. Be inside in a second.”

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale responded, and then hung up.

He nervous flitted about the shop, his hands over his belly, until Crowley marched through the door. Which, once closed, he locked. The bookshop looked decidedly different without any books in it, and everything else small had been packed away. There were just shelves left, and lights, a table. Things that they could take with them if they were so inclined, and Crowley had a feeling that Aziraphale didn’t want to part with any of it. It was just that they didn’t fit into boxes, given their size. Boxes had nearly taken over the shop, though Crowley had expected nothing else. What he didn’t expect was when Aziraphale came to him and embraced him, immediately. No hard feelings, apparently, and Crowley held him tight.

There was no need to ask now, because it was clear that they were fine. Crowley hadn’t done any lasting damage, not to Aziraphale, the baby, or the shop. That was a bigger relief than he cared to admit, and he pressed a kiss into Aziraphale’s hair for good measure. A sudden _burst_ went through him, all warm and pleasant, starting just low enough in his gut that he couldn’t quite place what it was, but it bubbled up to his chest until Aziraphale suddenly pulled back, looking just as shocked as Crowley did.

“I’m—well, I’m sorry about that,” Aziraphale said. His eyes seemed to follow the trail the warmth had, then landed squarely on Crowley’s face, all slanted glasses and wide eyes.

“Forgiven, I suppose,” Crowley gawked. “What was that?”

“Well, uh. It would seem they know who you are.”

Crowley nearly lost himself and his footing all at once, not for the idea of Aziraphale’s sentence. That was actually nice, and rather telling for a thing less than twenty-four hours old. What caught Crowley so fast and off guard was that it wasn’t a thing. It was _they._ It was _things._

“Right,” Aziraphale put it together before Crowley could voice his sudden concern. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, and I figured I should tell you in person.”

“Yeah,” came Crowley’s dumb response.

Aziraphale ushered him over to a chair, where Crowley collapsed in very much his way, with his arm over the back and his legs splayed out. Aziraphale stood in front of him, and they had yet to break eye contact.

“So. They,” Aziraphale said, then held up his fingers. “There’s two of them.”

“Two. Twins,” Crowley stated.

“I don’t know if twins is the right word,” Aziraphale coughed. “B-Before Raguel, there was only one of them. But, ah, rather. After that little spat, it decided to, well,” Aziraphale made the motion with his hands, “split.”

“You’re telling me this thing, less than a day old, sensed a threat and split itself in two?”

“Yes.”

“Shit,” Crowley leaned into his hand. He looked at Aziraphale’s belly, then. Nothing looked differently. Nothing seemed _off_ , but even for their distance, Crowley felt some radiating warmth he couldn’t place. It was a comfortable one, too, shielding him against the outside chill. Then, “Why would it do that?”

“ _They_ seem to think it’ll help. Two weaker energy spots instead of one big one,” Aziraphale explained.

“And they just. Told you this. While you packed.”

“Not exactly. They can’t very well _talk_ , dear. I don’t think they’ve yet to even form cells. Most women don’t know they’re pregnant for weeks, and here I am knowing the second it happened. This all feels rather strange.”

“Then how do you know?”

“It’s that warm thing you feel. It’s like a type of energy, I imagine. Very much their energy. They communicate, but it’s not as though they’re speaking to me. I just feel what they want me to feel, and I feel two of them.”

Crowley nodded. He had yet to close his mouth or blink. That must have been why it didn’t matter if they wanted a boy or a girl, because there was a chance to get _both._ Provided, of course, that they subscribed to that sort of human thing. Raguel could be right. They could still be monsters, just in smaller forms. He didn’t want to think about that, though, because Aziraphale seemed more and more confident by the second that they were not having _monsters_ for children. They would be regular. What else reason would there be to mention the nursing bit?

Two kids, though. Twins. Crowley was going to call them twins whether or not that was the correct term or not, because it was easier than saying one-being-that-split-itself-into-two-because-it-was-trying-to-be-helpful. Twins was much better. More concise. Enough to get the point across that there were two little things growing, or trying to, inside Aziraphale. What was even more awe-inspiring, Crowley had helped. And, if Aziraphale was to be believed, the kids already knew who he was. Less than twenty-four hours. Most children were born before they ever met their fathers, and even longer after to recognize them the way they did the mother. Crowley was lucky. They knew him, and somehow, were keeping him _warm._

“Well,” Crowley said, though his hand was over his mouth. When he leaned forward, Aziraphale let out the tiniest bit of laugh and stepped forward, close enough that Crowley could touch him. Crowley smoothed his hand over Aziraphale’s stomach and felt the sudden jump, the sudden burst that fled down to his elbow and up to his shoulder. It tingled at his fingertips in the way it might have if he’d just touched a stove, but the heat was mild and soothing.

“They seem to like you,” Aziraphale commented, and he was laughing. He could feel the heat, too, worming up his spine like a hand on his back.

“I should hope so. I helped make you, you know,” and he was talking to Aziraphale’s stomach, now. The heat made with a sudden jolt that had Crowley pulling back but laughing. “Feisty.”

“I bet I know which one of us did that.”

“You, angel,” Crowley stood up, finally having gathered himself. “You’re a bit of a tart, you know.”

Aziraphale would’ve slapped him if not for the very impending energy hanging over them that _kids_ were there, watching. They couldn’t bother on forever, though, so Crowley leaned forward to steal a chaste little kiss. Kissing, he decided, was the best part about this, because it was so much warmer than it ever had been. So much more magical to press their lips together and stand there, slowly, still, until it was time to pull away. Crowley pressed their foreheads together and sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and smiled. He knew Aziraphale was still watching him, ever glad for how relaxed and happy he seemed. It had been a long while since Crowley smiled big, like that, with dimples and creases in his cheeks.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. “You look so happy.”

“I am, angel. I am. All because of you.”

After that, Aziraphale decided he _was_ ready to go home, for how long he’d been away. They stopped by the bakery, and Aziraphale ate three extras on top of the two he normally purchased; Crowley was happy to buy them, and happy to listen to him rave about the taste and texture on the short drive back to the flat. Crowley noticed, when they arrived, how Aziraphale’s warmth changed as they moved around. Outside, it was more intense, and inside, it cooled to a soothing, hugging temperature. In the Bentley, it had been nearly gone, but Crowley had the heat up. And when they finally stepped into the flat, the door clicking locked behind them, Aziraphale seemed to have figured it out.

Something about Crowley being a snake had always left him a little cold in the winters and a bit hot in the summer. Snake biology and human biology didn’t line up properly, so his circulation was all off, and his temperature control didn’t seem to be on point, ever. It led to fireplaces and heavy coats in the cold months and sleeping naked when it was hot again. Whatever it was about it, the kids had picked up on it immediately, and their energy was large enough to encompass Aziraphale and Crowley, it seemed. Protective, a bit. Crowley didn’t mind it, either. He liked feeling warm all the time.

While Aziraphale ducked into the kitchen to make some tea, Crowley settled in the lounge, at the computer. He hadn’t told Aziraphale about the houses, yet, but he would have them all set up for him to look at when he came back with refreshments. Crowley hadn’t drunk or eaten anything in ages, and he was beginning to feel a bit parched. Even if it had nothing to do with physicality, he could still go for a spot of tea. Aziraphale delivered in a tall cup, too, which Crowley took from behind him without even looking. Aziraphale lingered directly behind him, staring, and Crowley felt rather proud of himself for it.

It meant Aziraphale had seen him poking through the different tabs, the houses. Each one magnificent in its own right, just waiting to be picked and purchased. Crowley would go on the records for having the fast house close of all time, and the humans would be helpless to it. All they had to do was pick one, and he was going to let Aziraphale do that. So, he shifted his chair to the side and gestured, while Aziraphale watched like the whole thing rather spooked him. He set his own cup of tea on the desk while Crowley took one, long sip.

Aziraphale didn’t really use computers. He barely knew how to work his phone, and it had taken Crowley an entire weekend to teach him about it. Technology, among other things, was just supposed to work for them, to make things easier. But Aziraphale had such a penchant for _learning_ , nothing really ever worked properly, anyway. Until he’d learned how to use it as such. His inventories and sales had always been done on paper, stored away in file cabinets in the back of the shop. Cabinet, really, and it was rather small. He didn’t do much dealing, after all, but he’d never taken time to learn how to do it properly with a computer. Now, staring at a computer, the fact that he was rather clueless redoubled.

“What have you been doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, we can’t skip town without somewhere to go, can we? So,” Crowley gestured, “houses.”

“Houses,” Aziraphale repeated. He stepped back until he was sitting on the arm of the couch, his ankles folded together, and his lips pursed together. “You want to live together?”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’ve been doing it for the past two years, unless you hadn’t noticed.”

“No, I noticed. It’s just, well,” Aziraphale straightened up. He explained it, then, in any detail he could manage.

While he was making tea, there was a strange shift in the warmth. Almost like a warning. They didn’t know any more about this than Aziraphale did, or Crowley, for that matter. All they were in agreement on was that Heaven was after them, and only them. Heaven wouldn’t try to kill Crowley, because Crowley wasn’t their job. That was entirely different, and even if Hell was watching, they would stay crafty. It wasn’t about business, with them. And Aziraphale—Raguel had said if he stayed out of it, he might survive. But he wouldn’t stay out of it. He couldn’t, not when he was already getting to know them. Eventually, he thought he might even be able to pinpoint what they were, more than these balls of energy floating about. All of it boiled down to one thing, specifically.

“You could leave, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and he dropped his eyes to the floor like he couldn’t bear to see a reaction to that. “You don’t have to stay. They aren’t your responsibility.”

There was silence.

“Heaven wants them gone; we’ve seen that. I suspect Hell will too, but they don’t seem to be here yet. It could get dangerous, and I wouldn’t want you—”

“Angel,” Crowley said, a sudden dark roughness to his voice. It commanded that Aziraphale look at him, so he did. “Did you really just say I could _leave_ you? Abandon you?”

“Well, I—yes. You could. If you wanted to. As I said, the kids are my responsibility, not yours.”

“Not my responsibility? Well,” and Crowley even stood up, “guess I should just leave now. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I—hadn’t exactly planned this far ahead,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley sighed and cleared the space between them, dropping down to his knees to lean his chin into the bump of Aziraphale’s stomach. “Angel,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t just tell me that _my_ kids aren’t _my_ responsibility. You may carry them, but let’s not forget who put them there in the first place.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hands together, just looking at Crowley with disbelief. Crowley eventually sighed and stood up. He leaned down ever much to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead before he moved back to the desk chair. Crowley rubbed his temples, then looked between the computer screen and Aziraphale’s wrenched up face. He looked ready to cry, but he met Crowley’s gaze. For a long moment, neither one of them said anything, until that pleasant warmth spread out again and wrapped them both close.

“They—they’re happy to hear that,” Aziraphale choked and barely managed to cover his mouth before Crowley heard it.

“And you? Are you happy to hear it?”

Aziraphale nodded desperately.

“Then get over here. Come on, you can sit in my lap, and I’ll show you the houses I’ve found. I want you to like the one we pick.”

Nothing would’ve stopped Aziraphale from going through with that request. He moved across the room and did just that, made himself comfortable in Crowley’s lap while Crowley got situated, so he could still use the mouse. One of these days, he would teach Aziraphale how to use a computer until he was an expert at it, but for now, he would just show him pictures. There were four houses in total, each with its pros and cons, but Crowley hadn’t looked too deeply. He didn’t _want_ to look too deeply. He wanted the decision to be made together, and there was no better way to do that than with Aziraphale so close and this warmth pulsing around them.

The first house was nothing really to scoff at. It was two stories with a spacious yard and a wooden fence. There was just a step to the front, but the inside was well made with hard wood floors and a rather nicely sized master bedroom. Aziraphale was more concerned with the kitchen, which was decidedly not as nice as the bedroom. Crowley clicked away from that house immediately. Better on the kitchen front was the second house, but it was hidden away from the rest of the middle. Being a one-story house, Aziraphale hated that just as much, and Crowley didn’t ask questions. The third house, though. Something jumped. They both felt it.

There was a large, large yard that circled the house, and a cute little porch just before the door. There was a stone path that led from the street to the porch, blocked only by the gate in the fence. The fence was tall, but not too tall, and the spaces between the posts were small—which meant privacy. Crowley clicked through the pictures, and the middle of the house was all open and spacious, the kitchen of proper size. There was a small upstairs with a bathroom, a master bathroom, and three bedrooms. There was a bathroom downstairs, too, near the cellar that might have passed as a basement. It was small and ran halfway underneath the house. Aziraphale was in love.

“They quite like this one, I think,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

“I can feel that. Tell me how _you_ think of it,” Crowley said.

“I…well,” Aziraphale smiled, “I love it.”

“Great. We’ll get this one.”

“Crowley—I don’t even, where is it? We can’t just buy a house!”

“We can,” Crowley shifted, and Aziraphale stood up. Crowley moved closer to the monitor and scrolled, until he stopped. “There, it’s in South Downs. That’s not bad, right? It’s out of London, anyway.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agreed. “The whole place is rather beautiful. Shouldn’t we at least go see it to know if we like it?”

The air around them immediately soured.

“Or not,” Aziraphale folded his arms.

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Maybe you can start on the stuff here? I don’t intend to leave the whole flat behind.”

Aziraphale laughed and waved his hand in the air. Of course, they weren’t about to leave the entire flat behind. They had time enough to take their belongings, save for the crucial fact that Aziraphale couldn’t drive. The Bentley and their things would have to make it down there at some point, but it was just another thing Crowley said he was taking care of. Aziraphale believed him, he did, and smiled for just as a moment as Crowley began a furious typing spree.

There was a sudden trill up his spine that had Aziraphale smiling, humming, and shifting against the door frame as he lingered a moment longer. He rather agreed with the feeling. Crowley was very, very good. He would never admit to it, he would never even deign to hear it, but Crowley was good. He was kind. He was working diligently for Aziraphale and two kids he had no way of knowing. All for their protection, their safety, and their comfort. This was what Crowley was, at heart, and that terrifying display in the bookshop was just another part of him. Not the important part, though, because even those flames stemmed from a place inside Crowley that longed to _protect_. Maybe finding a house and getting them moved wasn’t protection at its finest, but it was the start of a new home, at least. It was nearly the same.

Aziraphale set to work on packing, and he did it all with miracles. Now that he was free to use them, it felt _wonderful._ Like he’d been holding a significant portion of himself back and under lock. The feeling was much like when he’d first been able to spread his wings after a long time of having them locked away. He even mulled over that, letting out his wings. Once more things were packed away, he certainly might try it. He certainly might try a few things, because the watching feeling was disappearing by the hour. Even balls of energy needed to sleep every now and again, and it gave Aziraphale quite the idea. Now that they had a moment, of course, and with the future so uncertain, they may never have another one. Not for a long while.

He finished packing what he could, which included near everything he could think of. He could go a few days without a proper breakfast or tea in the morning; they were indulgences and nothing more. Clothing wasn’t much issue, either, since they could use magic again. Aziraphale still left a few things out; they’d both rather gotten into the habit of changing clothes manually. It was more fun, anyway, they’d found. And, it had given Aziraphale the majority of his idea. When he’d been rummaging around the closet and found the lingerie he’d purchased quite under Crowley’s wallet. He hadn’t much chance to wear any of it, though some of the sets he’d gotten were nice enough and simple enough to wear as normal, everyday underwear. There was a particular set he’d gotten, a wine red, to please Crowley’s insatiable love for the color. Especially on Aziraphale.

Something about contrast; Aziraphale didn’t remember, and he didn’t care. He had time to change into the set, three pieces in total. The final piece was the robe that the attendant had shown him, and he’d fallen in love with it immediately. It was just modest enough that Aziraphale wouldn’t feel completely ridiculous wearing it, but it was just sexy enough that Crowley wouldn’t be able to resist him. There were slits in the sides of the robe that went all the way up past his hips. It would certainly be a sight to pull Crowley away from the stress they’d been under the past day. They both deserved that, even if it was Aziraphale’s little selfish streak. _He_ wanted the stress relief too. There was just something so wonderful about the way Crowley practically worshiped him, when they were in bed together.

Crowley had just finished talking to a rather frazzled real estate agent, who for some reason was insisting that thousands in cash wasn’t going to be enough to close the deal as fast as Crowley needed, when Aziraphale knocked on the door. Little did the agent know, but Crowley had a little demonic trick up his sleeve. Aziraphale had a rather disguised angelic one, though, which wiped the thoughts from Crowley’s head when he turned in the chair. He’d been wearing his sunglasses until that point, but then, he took them off to get a better look. Aziraphale was positively stunning, and his skin was turning a flush red with embarrassment. Crowley’s staring certainly wasn’t helping, but Crowley couldn’t help it, either.

“Angel,” he breathed.

“Hello,” Aziraphale was losing his conviction to this quickly, but Crowley crossed the room quicker. He hesitated for just a moment, but then figured if Aziraphale didn’t want to be touched, he wouldn’t have dressed like this. So, Crowley slid his hands down and around to rest on Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale’s breath seemed to catch up in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

“I thought, well. It’s been a rather stressful couple of days. That you might like to, well. Join me? I suppose. You don’t have to—”

“Angel, there’s nothing I’d rather do,” Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale believed him. Really, truly, believed him.

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. They fell against each other on the couch, and the rest just happened naturally, the way they’d always been.

When Aziraphale woke up, sometime in the evening, Crowley woke right with him. There was a long pause where they just stared at each other. Aziraphale had fallen asleep on top of him, and it was a rather good vantage point to look over the sharp angles in his face, to run his hands through Crowley’s hair. His long, long hair. Aziraphale had always thought this look suited him best, but every look Crowley had gone through had a special place. Long hair was something spectacular, though, and Aziraphale felt positively warm about it. Then, they kissed, all briefly and sweetly as they did. Crowley bumped his head back into the couch and just. Grinned.

“Morning, angel,” he said.

“It’s the evening, thank you,” Aziraphale said. “Same day, and all. I believe we just took a nap.”

“And I do so love that, you know. The nap.” Because Aziraphale didn’t sleep, and Crowley would never let him live this down. Ever.

Aziraphale crawled off him, then, and sat on the couch where he could adjust himself and slip the robe back on over his shoulders. It wasn’t for being cold, which he wasn’t, but for being modest. Crowley might be fine to lay there in nothing but a pair of pants, quite literally, but Aziraphale had better standards on that. Not that he would complain, of course, because Crowley was certainly something to look at. And glance, at least, Aziraphale did, before adjusting a loose bra strap. Another moment passed before Aziraphale finally stood up, leaving a tap on Crowley’s thigh to get him to come, too. But Crowley just shifted.

“Angel, I had a thought.”

“My, a dangerous thing,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Don’t be a—well,” Crowley sniffed. That warmth was coming back, and that probably meant to keep the language to a minimum. “Anyway. What might be the chances of stopping by a doctor? I know this isn’t entirely normal, but it couldn’t hurt to see what’s going on in there.”

“You think they could see something?”

Crowley shrugged, “could they? You seem sure enough that something’s in there already.”

It certainly wouldn’t hurt, though it would have to wait until morning. Nothing to be said for a miraculous appointment opening, of course, and there were things to do until then. Aziraphale _was_ rather sure there was something there, he just wasn’t sure what. The images he was getting were nothing short of strange and disjointed. Balls of light, usually, but something more. Bigger. And it did leave him a little frightened, but best not to dwell on it. He didn’t need Crowley to know about those parts of the feelings. Just the good ones, the warmth and the little jolts. Just the ones that felt like _babies_ and not like monsters, and the other thing certainly felt a bit like monster.

They had to finish packing, though, and they were both due for a bit of real clothes. For a bit of other things, too, but Aziraphale had packed away most of the kitchen. That didn’t change the fact that he was suddenly very hungry. His stomach even growled while they both changed into actual clothes, and Crowley froze mid trouser pull to stare across the bed at him. Aziraphale had gone entirely red at the noise, because _this_ was new. This actual pang of hunger like if he didn’t eat, he was going to get sick, or something very similar. Like he might quite frankly discorporate over _hunger_.

“If you need me to nip out and get something,” Crowley offered.

“I—well, I would say no, don’t mind the trouble, but I think it’s, well,” he looked down over himself. “I think it’s _them._ ”

“Little buggers need food, do they?” Crowley smirked to himself. How fascinating that was, since neither he nor Aziraphale needed to eat, for all intents and purposes. “And what do they want?”

“Maybe stop by that sushi place?” Aziraphale was clearly trying not to be an imposition, but Crowley could see it typed out on his face how eager he was for something to eat, so Crowley obliged. Under the promise, of course, that Aziraphale would continue to pack while he was gone. He would, of course. Though, they were nearly done. Magic made moving quite easy, apparently. For Aziraphale, anyway, as he wasn’t worrying about the bigger things.

Still, there were linens and bathroom amenities to put away. Extra books, the things for the plants; everything would be going with them, of course, even the furniture. There hadn’t even been a discussion. Aziraphale was growing rather fond of Crowley’s furniture, even if it would probably be kept somewhere no small babes could hit their heads on it. Sharp angles, and such. They would get to go shopping for softer furniture, and that was where Aziraphale certainly excelled. Maybe he had an old-fashioned taste, but he had a knack for decor, he always thought. It would be fun getting to decorate an entirely brand-new space, to pick where things would go. He’d spied a rather spacious room through the pictures Crowley had shown them, and he rather thought it would make for a good study. He could set up the books in there. Oh, he might even get to use them, one day, to teach his new children to _read._

That, he was rather excited for. To teach them to read, to write, to practice their words with them. He had a long and good time to wait before anything like that was even on the horizon, but he could think of it, wrapped up in their energy as he was. If he waited long enough, he might get to truly meet them before they arrived, and then back to square one. Bodies were quite a difficult thing to have, and he was sure that the two of them would figure that out eventually. Or they already had, which would explain the hunger pangs. For as much as it hurt, Aziraphale was still a bit fond of it. And he wondered, briefly, if this would be their new routine. Real hunger.

They had to grow somehow, he supposed.

When Crowley returned, Aziraphale sat at the desk in the study while he ate. Crowley fretted about with other things; there were three separate phone calls he took before Aziraphale had even finished the first roll of sushi. Three very angry sounding calls, but Crowley always smiled at him, still. Rather sensitive of the idea that he could do something outlandish and frighten Aziraphale again, but that was to be expected. It was just Crowley’s way about things, the ever-attentive coddling. Aziraphale didn’t mind, at the worst of times. At the best of times, he felt rather cherished for it.

The fourth phone call seemed to be the worst, because Crowley very pointedly miracled to the end of it, where their offer was to be settled when they arrived in South Downs, at the end of the week, with cash. At the end of the week. That was quickly approaching. That was just a few days, and with them having spent most of the morning and afternoon wrapped up on the sofa, it was closer than it seemed. A week, and they would be as safe as they were going to get. And there would have to be something done about it, further, but that would be addressed when all was said and done.

Aziraphale was thinking about security, of course. They couldn’t live in a fortress, but they could turn their new cottage into one with the right things. An alarm, lights, all wonderful things of the modern era. Even if none of it would truly stop Heaven or Hell and whoever they sent on the prowl, it would be a warning. If Crowley’s actions at the bookshop had been anything at all, all he needed was a warning. There was a brief mourning that Aziraphale still did not have his sword, but there probably wasn’t much he was going to be able to do with it, given the circumstances. Especially as the children started to grow. However long they needed and however big they would get. That was the last of Aziraphale’s fears.

Nine months seemed a good measurement, since their bodies were particularly human, but it felt more like a minimum for some reason. Aziraphale hoped he was wrong about that, that it was gut saying things and not the energy inside him egging him towards a particular conclusion. As if two balls of energy would really know how long they needed to grow; that was a ridiculous thought. It would take time, and hopefully, South Downs would provide them with all the time they needed.

Aziraphale finished the last of what Crowley had brought him and licked his fingers for it. Then, he took a long drink of water. Crowley, having finished what seemed an endless amount of calls, propped himself up to sit on top of the desk, one knee bent so he could lean against it. He looked at Aziraphale for a moment, like he always did, trying to read him open.

“We’re set to move,” he said.

“I imagine humans don’t have it this easy.”

“Not a bit, but I’d like us gone quickly. I’m sure you can understand why.”

Aziraphale nodded. He certainly could. If Raguel would be back, it was better that they were gone. “I don’t know how well we’ll be able to hide, though,” Aziraphale said.

“As long as were able, then. I imagine with one attempt out of the way, they might stay back to play better,” Crowley sniffed. He had an inkling, after all, that Raguel and Heaven hadn’t planned on his little stunt. He hadn’t planned on his little stunt, either, but it was still ringing in his ear. Fire that wasn’t hot. Burning in his back. All of it was obnoxious and cryptic, and seemed very much like something he would do. The most annoying thing of all was just how in-character it was of him.

“If we aren’t attacked again, though,” and Aziraphale said this with a rather pointed hold over his stomach, “I imagine we will be. When they’re born.”

Crowley nodded, “most likely. Can’t imagine who would want to kill babies, though,” and it was with such a venom dipped sound of sarcasm that Aziraphale nearly winced. Some things, time was not strong enough to heal. Not when Crowley was immortal.

“We should finish up, then. I assume you’ve taken care of transportation?”

Crowley nodded, “yeah. Didn’t want to pop everything there on the off chance they’ve started logging location now,” and he slumped off the desk, back to his feet. “We should be set, for now. If you’d like to rest.”

“And the doctor’s visit you suggested? I’ve never been to a doctor’s before. Don’t they have paperwork—”

“Miracles, angel, miracles. Besides, if it all goes to waist, pop,” Crowley snapped, “and they don’t remember a thing. I’d rather be as safe about this as we can be.”

With that, Aziraphale wholeheartedly agreed. He could certainly use a rest for the remainder of the evening, anyway. Not that they hadn’t spent all day asleep, but Aziraphale was feeling rather winded for it all. Crowley looked right awake, and even pressed on that Aziraphale go to bed. He would finish the packing. The truck would be by the day after next, giving them time for the doctor, and all would be well. They’d be gone by the end of the week, in a new house, safely just under the nose of their adversaries. It might just work, foolish enough as it was. There would be no better telling for how they’d fair anywhere else. Aziraphale would miss the bookshop, though. He knew that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)   
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> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 I FINALLY FINISHED IT 𓆏
> 
> I'm working on like 10 other fics right now. I joined a good omens big bang (so you have that to look forward to if you like my stuff), and the people there are absolutely wonderful. They're giving me too many ideas, so I have a literal QUEUE of things to write at this point. Wonderful. But, i'm glad I finally got this chapter finished.

Her name was Anathema Device. Or it had been, rather, not three months prior. It had been a small affair and a big argument of where it would end them. But at the end, as all weddings tend to lead to, her name was now Anathema Pulsifer-Device. She had argued for Device to come first, but it sounded better second when she spoke it aloud. Newton had found the whole thing rather endearing, as he found many things, and fell in love with her all over again. After the argument of where they would end up, Anathema put her foot down. She was becoming rather _fond_ of England, and surely there was no better place to be than Tadfield. Her family had given in, much less consented, and haggled over a nice dinner on the price of Jasmine Cottage. It was no longer being rented. It was being purchased, owned, and renovated. While news, it hadn’t stopped Crowley from knocking on her door at some obnoxious time in the afternoon. Just after lunch, when by all rights, nobody should have been knocking. Not in Tadfield, anyway.

She’d needed a bit of reminding of who they were, which Crowley expected. It was only after introducing himself as the book thief that it dawned on her, and Crowley was rather put off by it. Still, no time to dwell on. The second thing she wanted to know was what had changed, because she remembered them being two _men_. And, thirdly, what on earth had they come to her door for. That, question two and three, was an incredibly long story. One Crowley was going to have to explain if she was going to help them. At least, given proper manner, she invited them in to sit down. The cottage was just a mess on the inside as it looked on the outside, but there was already a fond touch of modernisms moving in. Mostly in the frequented areas like the main room and the kitchen.

Once they’d been properly seated on the couch, and Newton got them some tea, Crowley told the story exactly how it had happened.

At exactly eight in the morning, Crowley had taken Aziraphale to see a doctor. For cautionary sake, really, because there was no way to know what was going on inside of him unless they could see it. And, Aziraphale was certain something was going on in there. He could see it, sometimes, when he closed his eyes. In the brief second of a blink, Aziraphale could feel the light stirring up around. The longer they had talked about it, a minute growing on an hour, really, the more Aziraphale wanted to know if he was right. Then, the idea of seeing what he could feel had a special sort of place in his heart. It would give these feelings form, and maybe a better idea of just what those forms would be.

Crowley had miracled the complicated information when they sat down in the waiting room to fill out forms but left the important things blank. Aziraphale had a certain preference for things like numbers and birthdays, even if they didn’t actually have birthdays. Even if they didn’t _matter._ It made Aziraphale happy to feel just that little bit more human than they were capable of being, so he took the pen and paper gratefully when Crowley handed it off. Aziraphale’s _birthday_ was October 16th. And his name was different, though it really had always been. This time was particularly different. Especially now with his new look, his new everything. He couldn’t very well be writing his real name on a form or anything real about it. He hesitated with the pen but went for it anyway. The perfect little disguise, and then he handed the paper back to Crowley.

“Would you mind to turn it back in, dear? I’m afraid it’s probably best I stay off my feet,” Aziraphale grinned.

Crowley rolled his eyes, but, “as you wish, angel. What did you even—” and Crowley stopped short. He stared at the paper and idly brushes his fingers along the light little pen strokes. Aziraphale’s handwriting was fine and round, swirly. It was a great contrast to his own, which was sharp and scratchy. It clearly looked like two people had touched the form, but who filled it out wasn’t important. It was the information that was important. And Aziraphale had written in his beautiful swooping letters, his name. Alexandria Zita Crowley.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley looked at him.

“As you said, we should just be what the humans expect. It’s usually frowned upon to conceive outside of marriage, you know,” Aziraphale wiggled in such a way of pride in himself, for his actions. “Do you like it?”

“I’m a bit overwhelmed, I think,” Crowley admitted. Aziraphale laughed and waved his hand.

“It’s quite unimportant. It’s just for show, right? Now, hurry along, please? I don’t want to stay here forever.”

Crowley found that he rather didn’t want it to be for show, and he’d never thought that before. Marriage was such a human thing. It was beneath them, beyond them; nothing that they would ever need to secure what they were to each other. The cute little certificates didn’t last eternities, and eventually they would need a new one with new names in a new place. A second wedding. It wouldn’t be so bad, marrying Aziraphale again and again as they lived through the rest of the ages. There were worse fates, he supposed, for forever. Aziraphale was worth that forever, and forever was not to be spent sitting in uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

He turned in the paper and made uncomfortable conversation as the receptionist raved about them. They didn’t wear rings, and what a curious thing for an expecting couple. Crowley made up the best excuse he could think of, a rather lame comment about not having the money for rings, at the time. The story seemed to rather move her, and she sent Crowley off back to his seat. Back to his _waiting wife_ —and what an idea that would be. Aziraphale as his wife. There was a moment he dared to picture the scene of a very human life where Aziraphale welcomed him home from work as he toed off his shoes in the doorway.

What a thought.

Crowley sat back down and didn’t question when Aziraphale folded their hands together on the armrests between them. And what a very married thing to do, but marriage wasn’t _for_ them. It was for the humans. It’s what the humans did to bin themselves together, and they had done something rather quite different. They had little balls of light, instead. Two of them, to be exact, and no human would ever be able to match that. Still, when Crowley looked down at their hands, he couldn’t help but wonder. Aziraphale wore rings, of course, but none on the right finger. He surely would, if Crowley offered. The question only remained, then, if Crowley would ever think to offer. Just because Aziraphale had written down a name on a piece of paper didn’t mean he was looking for reality. As he said, just as the humans expected.

The humans apparently expected Alexandria Zita _Crowley_.

Twenty-three minutes and some odd seconds later, Aziraphale was being called back. Due to the special circumstance, Crowley went back with him. This would be a cut and dry maternity checkup, and hopefully, they could do an ultrasound. It was easy enough to pass off for being farther along than he was, Aziraphale, and neither of them quite minded. What a perfect excuse to just have that chance to _look._ If nothing more, they would be better prepared for what was going on. There was no way that it was entirely normal, entirely regular, or entirely human. It would be entirely them, though, and if history was anything to speak, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Crowley waited on his phone while the nurse and _Alexandria_ talked. The nurse had called him Mrs. Crowley exactly once before both he and Crowley nearly had a fit, so that ended immediately. Now it was _Alexandria_ this and _Alexandria_ that, while they went through the procedures. The tests. The talking—the _cooing._ Aziraphale wasn’t even a parent yet, and he already sounded like some middle-aged and overly excited mother, very proud of all that his kids would and could accomplish. Not that there were kids, and Aziraphale had only said kid. They had no realistic way of knowing there were two little things growing up inside there. Not technically, until the ultrasound. Which had been approved, well enough. For that, Crowley put away his phone.

Only, it was quite positively nothing they had expected. The process seemed easy enough with the monitor, the gel, and the little hand tool. But what they saw was. Well. Just what the energy had felt like. That’s what showed up on the monitor—two bright little glowing lights. Crowley half thought that they looked like _stars_ , and what a thing to think of his would-be own children. The last stars that he would ever get to make, and what stars that he had maybe dreamed about creating before his Fall. There, right there, showing on a monitor in almost blinding colors.

The nurse seemed overly concerned that the monitor was broken, but Aziraphale was positively taken by the sight. And how human technology could pick it up was all but explained in the sudden chill that he and Crowley both felt over them. The warmth and the energy had all receded back—to do what the humans expected. To show themselves off, not only to the nurse, but to their _parents._ Because the little energy knew how much they wanted to see it, so there it was. To be seen. To be admired, and it pulsed with nothing less than love.

“I am so sorry,” the nurse cut in. “Really, I do apologize. I can’t imagine what the bugger is wrong with the thing.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said, immediately, with his hand up to stop her from shutting it off. Before Aziraphale could even say anything, for himself. “I think we’ll take the pictures, if that’s alright.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Crowley? They’re—well, these aren’t usually what we expect to see.”

“I’m quite sure. You know,” and he nodded towards Aziraphale, “for the wife.”

The nurse smiled. Aziraphale’s face flushed a deep red. And by the time they left the building, Aziraphale was thumbing through a small envelope of photographs from different angles. They all looked the same, except for the surrounding area. But the little balls of energy—they were there. No doubt they weren’t so much anymore, with the return of that all-encompassing warmth. But Aziraphale _liked_ the idea that he had something physical growing inside him, not just energy learning to manifest.

Still, the problem remained that the trip had done nothing to answer their questions. Maybe they would be able to idly stare at black and white pictures of nothing less than _stars_ , but they were no closer to learning anything about those stars than they had been before they’d gone in. The photos alone were worth the trip, but they still needed information. Only now did it dawn on either of them that this could be dangerous. Those were not real physical things growing, it was just pure energy. And pure energy could do a lot of things. Might it destroy the world just as surely it would save it, but this energy was something that _Heaven_ was afraid of. If Heaven was afraid of it, by all rights, they should be afraid of it too.

“I think we need to make another stop,” Crowley said, once they were back in the Bentley.

“Wherever you want to go, dear. I’m quite content, I think.”

A morbid thought passed on that he was only content because the children wanted him to be content, and that was a very powerful thing to be able to do. Crowley kicked himself for the thought, if not because it was a horrid thing to say, but because—if they could hear him—he didn’t want the kids to think he thought poorly of them. He didn’t. He was _excited_ , to say the least, for the day that they would meet them truly. That didn’t mean he hadn’t always lived his life with a healthy dose of paranoia. They would understand that. They had to. They might very well inherit that little trait.

That was the story then, and Crowley slumped into the couch with his arms crossed. Aziraphale had wandered over to the other side of the room to show Anathema and Newton the photos from the visit, because they had stopped right by afterward. Anathema looked at the images, brows knitted together, and Newton seemed a bit put off by them. No one would blame him, if he was. The images were just as unnerving as the implication, whatever the implication was.

“And since you seem to know a bit about the occult,” Crowley continued, “thought you might be the one to help. Hope we’re not intruding.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow, “seems a bit late to worry about the intruding part.”

Crowley just shrugged.

“I suppose they’re _real_ enough,” Anathema looked back at the images. “I could probably find something out, but I’m not really sure what else I can help you with. What are you trying to know?”

“Just what they are, really,” Aziraphale chimed. “It’s like I can feel them trying to communicate, in a way. It’s how we knew there were two of them.”

“Wait, you _knew_ there were two?” Anathema looked a bit shocked, at that.

Aziraphale nodded and returned to his seat on the couch, beside Crowley. Anathema was still flipping through the photographs, trying to discern anything that she could from them. But she was neither an expert on supernatural fetus’ nor pregnancy, in general. To her, the pictures were just blotches of black and white and bright. She wasn’t about to learn anything more from them, so she reached out and set them on the cedar coffee table. Newton took a test peer over them again, too. Just to wonder if they were any less strange, and they weren’t. He sat back in his chair and drank on his tea, instead.

“Well, let me get a look at you, I guess,” Anathema said. “I don’t know what they are, but maybe there’s something I can see.”

Aziraphale straightened up where he sat, curling his hair behind his ear, and Anathema stared at him. She remembered when they’d met on the road, two years ago, for the first time. When they met at the Air Base. She remembered someone sorely different, but there was so much the same. The white hair, curly. The yellows and beiges. The tartan. Even for the very and sudden feminine appearance, this was the same person that had been there when the world did not end. She should have asked, but she already knew, really. That they weren’t quite ever what they’d seemed.

One was an angel. One was a demon. She could see that well enough when she stared, because they had auras that were everything other than human. Crowley’s was dark and full of flames, of stars. Of serpent eyes and chants he’d long forgotten. Aziraphale’s was a softer, brighter cloud of blues and gates and something perilous. But there was nothing else. Even where she could clearly see the sun bright energy that beamed out of Aziraphale, there was no aura. There were no forms. It was just light, just power. An immense amount of power that had Anathema scooting her armchair back on the floors, her fingers gripping into the fabric.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, eager to see what she’d seen.

“They don’t have auras,” she said, “or, well. I can’t see them.” That was a better description. “I’ve only seen one other person without an aura.” One that she couldn’t see.

They waited for her to swallow around the word.

“Adam Young, of course,” and she smiled all too sweetly for the venom in teeth. Adam Young was the Anti-Christ. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t have an aura, just that it encompassed a space so large it was impossible for any one person to look upon it. If Anathema couldn’t see the children’s aura, either. It meant that they truly didn’t have them, or that their auras were too large to see. And in comparison to Adam young, the idea was terrifying.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and understood, all at once, entirely why Heaven had wanted their kids dead. If, of course, the assumption was correct. They were all four just staring between each other, in the silence, in the heavy air. Until one of them would have the courage to say what they were all thinking—that there was only one other person in the world with this problem, and it was the Anti-Christ. It was Adam Young. And the last time someone like Adam Young had come around, the world had nearly ended. And maybe that meant the world was going to almost end again, and entirely out of the foolish accident of one Demon Crowley and Principality Aziraphale.

“You don’t think this could mean another Armageddon, do you?” Aziraphale finally squeaked. “Surely, we would have been warned?” and he looked at Crowley without an ounce of certainty.

All things considered, another Armageddon wouldn’t make sense, given their current threat. None of the four had put the pieces together, though, that the last Armageddon was very much desired on both sides. Heaven and Hell. If this was Armageddon the Second, it should have followed the same formula. It hadn’t, though, because Heaven had sent Raguel to deal with something it perceived as evil and bad. Whatever this meant, it was not the end of humans, and it was not the end of the world.

“They did promise to leave us alone. For the time,” Crowley replied. Still quite believing this was Armageddon all again. Their fault, though, this time.

“Surely this would have been something Agnes Nutter could have foreseen?” and Aziraphale looked at Anathema, then to Newton. Who both looked at each other with a very obvious grimace. Newton folded his hands together in his lap and let out a hefty sigh of not so much relief as it was excess stress.

“She uh, might have,” Newton said. “We’re not sure on the details.”

Crowley leaned forward onto his knees, intrigued in the most fiendish of ways. “And what do you mean by that?”

“We did receive another book,” he continued, “but we, well,” and he looked at Anathema. They both wore a rather guilty conscience on their sleeves. “We burned it.”

“You _what_?” Crowley only didn’t stand in his threatening way because Aziraphale’s hand was on his arm in a hard grasp, to keep him there.

“We burned it! We thought it was better that way—” Newton tried to defend, but Anathema spoke up.

“That book ruled my life. The whole life of my family, too. A second was just too much to think about. I’m sorry if that inconveniences _you_ , but it was our choice.”

“And entirely within your right,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Trust me, it’s quite alright. We’ll sort through this on our own, won’t we, Crowley?”

“Sure thing, angel. It would’ve been nice to _know._ ” He lamented on in quiet for a moment. The uncertainty was all together dreadful. It could mean anything, now. They would have no guidance; they would have no idea of anything they were to face. All in the same, it was quite like real parenting.

“We just won’t know, then. It’s quite alright. Humans do it all the time.”

“ _Humans_ don’t usually have the chance to accidentally start Armageddon back up,” Crowley said quite rougher than he meant to, but Aziraphale didn’t so much as flinch. “Wouldn’t that be funny, then? We stop Armageddon only to start it again. Ourselves this time, of course.”

“Crowley,” was all Aziraphale said, sympathy on his lips.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do for you,” Anathema stood up. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but—” she stiffened, she adjusted her skirt, and she folded her arms. “Don’t be strangers. I should be able to tell if your condition changes,” she nodded towards Aziraphale, “with much more accuracy than a doctor. And, if you need any sort of attention, I can take care of that.”

“I appreciate that,” Aziraphale grinned at her.

But, as she said, there was nothing more to do. They could talk, and they did, over a cup of tea each and a spot of lunch, but nothing more. Newton told them about the wedding and, more importantly, about Anathema _during_ the wedding. She’d worn a long old-fashioned dress with a cathedral train and long sleeves. She’d been a stunning view, and he wanted to share pictures. Over a second cup of tea, they looked at wedding pictures. Specifically, Aziraphale and Newton looked at wedding pictures. Anathema sat with her legs crossed in her chair, watching, and Crowley had pulled up his phone.

Sometimes, he stared at his phone for no reason in particular. Just out of habit, out of fear and his healthy dose of paranoia. Technology was so easy to manipulate, and he was taking Raguel’s comment entirely to heart. That Hell knew, too, what they’d done. They would stay crafty for it in their attempt to undo it, but if Heaven was afraid of these kids, then Hell had to be, too. Heaven may want them dead, but Hell could even have something worse in mind. Raguel was willing enough to spare Aziraphale, if he would just let it happen. Hell wouldn’t stoop to that. Hell would kill all four of them, given the chance. And maybe if pressed, Heaven would follow suit.

All of it was uncertain and riding on one variable: Raguel had held up her promise. That she would buy them enough time to get out of London and disappear, right under everyone’s noses. It wouldn’t mean much either way, because Heaven and Hell would both find them again. Through all the means they’d used to find them now—not using miracles hadn’t mattered. They’d still been found, so if it happened once, it could happen again. Miracles or not. And now, Aziraphale was carrying two blinding beacons inside of him. There would be no hiding. Not once they were born, anyway, and that seemed the end goal. Even if Crowley didn’t make it past then, he would ensure these children found life, first. That Aziraphale could keep his.

They would be fine without him, if it came to that. So, Crowley put his phone away and looked over at Aziraphale— _Alexandria_ —and smiled rather fondly. He— _she_ —was beautiful. No matter what form Aziraphale took, he was always beautiful. Even back in the beginning with large white wings and draped robes, Aziraphale had been beautiful. Crowley didn’t remember much before then, but he would always remember how Aziraphale looked at him. And for a moment, when Aziraphale met his eyes, he smiled, too.

“I think it’s probably time we leave,” Crowley said.

“My offer still stands,” Anathema told after him. “Any help you need, I’ll do my best. What you’ve got there,” she pointed to the pictures still sitting on the coffee table, “worries me.” She almost wished they _hadn_ _’t_ burned Agnes Nutter’s second book. It would have surely had something about this. Even just the simplest prophecy to tell them how this would end. Even if it did end, Crowley hoped there would be more after it. For them, at least, even if not for him.

Anathema sent them on their way with a boxed bit of chocolates and a wave from the door. Newton was on her arm, where he always seemed to be, ever happy for it too. Much like a lost dog, but he’d found his way there, with her. After Adam saved the world and things were slightly to the left, Newton had found that he _could_ work with computers. They didn’t break the moment he touched them. He couldn’t just work with them, but he was good at it. He’d gotten a job as a local repairman, and he did outside jobs too. It left them with comfortable enough wages that they didn’t have to rely on the Device Family, who was less than excited about funding Anathema’s strange decisions.

And then, the drive was taken in silence. Aziraphale thumbed through the photographs with a dreamy little look, and Crowley listened to _Queen._

“If you listen to that enough,” Aziraphale said, stepping out of the Bentley, “I think the kids will recognize it before they’re even born.”

“As intended. It’d do well to start them off with good taste,” Crowley replied.

They both felt the sudden _bristle_ in the air around them, then sputtered out laughs. The kids already _did_ recognize it, and they liked it. And their joy radiated out into the air between them, before Crowley reached forward and took Aziraphale’s hand in his own. A little tighter than necessary, and they rushed inside a little too fast, but the outdoors were not someplace they needed to be. Not with a looming threat. Though, inside was far less joyous than the retreating sun outside, because there were boxes stacked up in the study and the foyer. There was no real amount of food, so Aziraphale plucked at the chocolates when they settled down together in the lounge. And they didn’t talk.

Aziraphale kept his eyes sorely away from Crowley, which was always a sign of a problem. Even though he was hungry, too, he was only picking at the chocolate instead of eating it with his little smiles and wiggles and moans, like he usually did. He was eating because he had to, not because he wanted to, and that was a strange feeling for the both of them. Watching Aziraphale decidedly _not_ enjoy chocolate was one of the worst things Crowley had ever seen, and Aziraphale felt all the stranger for doing it.

“What’s wrong, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. He had his arm up around the back of the couch and reached with it to run the backs of his fingers along Aziraphale’s cheek. “You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t _feel_ so good, either, Crowley,” Aziraphale admitted. He set the box of chocolates on the table and leaned back into the cushions with one of the photos in his hands. “Do you think we acted too hastily?”

The room’s air soured.

“No,” Crowley said. “I think we did what came natural. This is what humans do all the time. They fall in love, and they have kids. If they can do it, so can we.”

The room was still unhappy, but Aziraphale’s lips quirked up regardless. “We’re not human, dear. Their life wasn’t meant for us.”

“I don’t see why in the Heavens not.”

“They meant to kill us two years ago, and I think they mean to kill us now, too. All of us,” he pressed absentmindedly into his stomach, “and that terrifies me.”

“I won’t let them hurt you, Aziraphale. Not you or the kids—you know I would do anything to protect you.”

“And that scares me too,” Aziraphale said, looking directly at Crowley. “It frightens me that you would do anything to keep us from harm, even if it meant throwing yourself into danger. That you’ll, well, it is to say—” Aziraphale stopped short on a catch of breath. His face was red and blotchy, and his eyes looked quite ready to usher on tears at any point. But he stayed calm. “That you would leave us, Crowley. I don’t like that idea.”

“Weren’t you just telling me that I could leave if I wanted?” Crowley couldn’t help himself and regretted it a moment later when Aziraphale scrubbed at his right cheek.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean get yourself _killed_ for us! I—oh, I couldn’t bear that, Crowley. I couldn’t. I couldn’t!”

Crowley felt something stop in his throat before he reached out and pulled Aziraphale into his chest, to hold him. He didn’t know what to say in turn that Aziraphale probably hadn’t already thought of himself. Crowley wouldn’t _lie_ to him. Crowley wouldn’t tell Aziraphale that everything would be alright, that he wouldn’t dare leave them like that—it would be a lie. They both knew, and knew it well, that if it came to it, Crowley _would_ throw himself in harm’s way. And he would do it again, and again, and again, until he could ensure that Aziraphale would be safe, and that their kids would be safe. And even if the trade was his life, Crowley would give it as many times as he could. Even if it would send him straight back to Hell, where this time, he would get no free pass.

Instead, Aziraphale just let himself sink into Crowley and _feel_ him. It was all just fear, for now, because Crowley was alive. They were all four still alive and fine. Happy, even, in their weird sort of way. There would come a day where this sofa was in another house, and the four of them would sit together on it and watch cartoons on Crowley’s overly large and indulgent television. Aziraphale would munch on popcorn and hope that at least one of the kids had a fondness for food with him, while Crowley would drink wine with his arm around them all. And what a sight it would be, what a feeling. The air in the room had significantly lightened.

“I can’t believe I have to leave the bookshop,” Aziraphale finally said; his cheek was pressed tight against Crowley’s chest, where he could hear a human heartbeat.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” Crowley admitted. “But it’s for the best.”

“I know—I know. I just hadn’t realized until this moment. I truly will never step in that shop again.”

Crowley held him just a little tighter and kissed the top of his hair.

“And the flat—we won’t—”

“Angel,” Crowley muttered, “it’s alright. I promise, whatever it is, I will make it alright for you.” All Aziraphale had to do was say the world, and Crowley would learn to make stars again. He would do it all; Aziraphale need only ask.

Something about that outrageously unrealistic amount of devotion calmed Aziraphale down. He wouldn’t have the shop, they wouldn’t have the flat, but they would have each other, still. He wouldn’t trade anything for that.

When Aziraphale woke up some odd hours later, it was to an incessant rumble in the pit of his gut that _hurt._ By habit and habit alone, regardless of the chocolates on the coffee table, he wandered over to the kitchen. It dawned on him, the moment he’d hit the fridge, that Crowley hadn’t been there. He was quite sure he’d fallen asleep on top of Crowley, which was relatively odd on its own. Odder still that Crowley wouldn’t have stayed to sleep with him. To at least hold him, if Crowley truly had lost his penchant for sleeping. That seemed rather unlikely, though, and Aziraphale grabbed for a sandwich he’d only just thought to create. One little miracle to quell this hunger was surely not going to be the end of them—and he was starving.

There was a whisper at the back of his throat, then. Something that tasted like an apology but left him feeling strange and uneasy. He nibbled on the sandwich a moment longer before letting the fridge door fall shut and turning back towards the door. He’d meant to go to the bedroom then and properly prepare for bed. Even if sleeping wasn’t his normal vice, he seemed to need quite a lot of it. To which that sour taste rose up on his tongue again, and it tasted like an apology. But, the light at the end of the hall startled him from his plan. The door through the plant room and to the study was open, and at the end, Aziraphale could see the light of a computer he didn’t remember Crowley having. The desktop in the lounge was the only one, and when Aziraphale walked by the door, it was still there. Rather off, though, but there was that familiar blue light forward.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called. Crowley shifted in his throne and looked over.

“Angel. Did I wake you?”

“Quite unlikely, since you’re all the way out here. What are you doing?” He’d thought for certain Crowley would have been _sleeping._ Since he rather enjoyed it. Was rather good at it.

When Crowley didn’t answer immediately, Aziraphale stepped around the desk and peered over his shoulder. This computer was definitely new, one of those laptops he’d heard about. It was sleek with red details, though the thing was mostly black. It really was quite a Crowley thing for Crowley to do, and Aziraphale smiled fondly. Not so much for the laptop itself, but for what was on the screen. Crowley was looking at a rather beautifully crafted wooden crib, and not one that would be mass-produced and sent off in a box. One that would be made and sent to them for a hefty price, it seemed. There were other, less expensive and mass-produced things in the different tabs, but this was the one Crowley had been staring at.

“That’s rather lovely,” Aziraphale commented.

“I thought so too.”

“A bit expensive?”

“Not like we’ll be needing money. Back to the miracle life, anyway. For me, at least. You’ll probably want to keep it to a minimum.”

“And what makes you say that?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“It takes energy, something you don’t seem to have much of. You’ve been pregnant for less than a week, and I can already see the stress you’re under.”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale could manage. Another tasteful apology in his throat, and then a sigh.

Crowley had made the laptop because he hadn’t wanted to disturb Aziraphale, who seemed quite already to need _sleep_ as much as he needed food, if the sandwich was anything to stand for. Crowley even whipped him up another plate for the night, with a snap of his fingers, when he’d finished the sandwich. They looked at the cribs together, and Aziraphale decided the first one was the only one that would ever be worthy of _their_ kids, so Crowley ordered two of them to the new address. Then, Crowley showed him different clothes they could buy. Aziraphale seemed to like the idea of dressing them in dapper little suits, much like his own, while Crowley was particularly taken with a onesie covered in ducks. They didn’t buy anything of that sort, though, and figured it would be much better done in person.

“Oh, we won’t need bottles,” Aziraphale said. “Remember?”

“How could I forget?” Crowley grumbled in response. He didn’t need to remember that at wee hours in the morning when he was slightly cold. He was beginning to get used to not being cold, in these months, but it seemed even the children had cycles of rest and wake.

Crowley had read up more about breast feeding than he really wanted to admit but figured none of it mattered. Aziraphale was doing this of his own free will, and he most likely hadn’t half a clue how it worked for humans. They wouldn’t have an issue of too much or too little, because Aziraphale could just do whatever he pleased, when he pleased.

Other than that, it was a lot of stuff that was tiny and cute. There were toys, blankets, and bedding. Larger beds, for when they grew, and shoes. Crowley was rather taken with looking at it all, but Aziraphale had started to yawn somewhere around three in the morning, so Crowley stopped scrolling and looked at him with as much awe as he did with worry. Aziraphale not only never slept, but he also never got tired. Yawning, as far as most humans were concerned, meant that he was tired.

“Angel, are you doing alright?”

“I’m quite fine, quite fine. I think I should like to sleep again, though. Is that alright, dear?”

“Yeah, of course. Do you need me to—?”

“No, no. I should be fine. Please, keep up your search. You seem quite happy, here.”

“I am, angel. I really am,” Crowley smiled a soft sort of smile that Aziraphale could scarcely say he’d seen before. Maybe once or twice, in quiet moments. But it was rare.

They kissed goodnight before Aziraphale padded off back down the hall and to the bedroom. He left the door open while he changed into proper night clothes, while he stripped down to his underclothes then unhooked the bra to let it fall to the floor in front of him. He spared a rather risqué and inappropriate thought for Crowley to decide to wander on to bed anyway and see him standing there, in nothing but a pair of white panties. But in the seconds it took for him to pull on his nightshirt, he realized it had just been a thought. If Crowley wanted to continue to look at baby things, then that was alright. It made him happy, and that was well enough.

A moment later, the door slammed shut with all the force it took to shake the floor, and Aziraphale whirled around with a shout on his lips. But. He stopped short as if his breath had been stolen from him, his breath and all his words. Before him, there, in the dark was a terrible and bright sort of shine that blinded him, nearly, that he might have had to close his eyes. There was no looking away, though. Not from this. Not when fear grabbed hold of him by the neck that this was a messenger sent straight from God Herself to put an end to his children. To put an end to him—and oh, what if it had already put an end to Crowley?

But that wasn’t right. The air tasted sour and felt like—

_We_ _’re sorry._

Aziraphale stared and watched the light split itself down the middle and take a shape he had not seen before. Two vaguely human shaped collections of thoughts and wonder and stars. One seemed to have a poof of hair in long, heavy curls halfway down its form, while the other defined itself in slightly taller height. After the split, the light no longer pulsed in unison. It pulsed in blues and reds and whites, but never at the same time. Never correct. Never regular.

“We’re sorry,” the first one said, with a voice not all unlike a girl’s. “We will take a bigger toll than we meant—”

“—like this,” the tall one finished, and its voice was slightly deeper, “we will be harder to find, but we—”

“—will take a toll.”

Aziraphale swallowed.

“They do not come for—” the first.

“—Armageddon is over,” the tall finished. “Armageddon has failed, and—”

“—reckoning day is not for—”

“—the humans,” and the tall finished, again.

“It is why they will fear us,” the first one said.

“It is why they will hunt us,” the tall one said.

“Are you? Are you really?” Aziraphale tried to step closer but found himself frozen by the feet where he stood. Like something held him there from reaching out and _reaching_. He knew the energy. He knew how it felt, between them, and the bitter taste of their apologies.

They nodded. Not in unison, never at the same time, never correct, and never regular. They nodded.

“When—oh, when can we meet you?” Aziraphale’s voice didn’t sound right. Not like his own, but a muffled version. The version an energy entrapped in a womb might have understood, but never heard in full and tune.

There was no answer, then, and it ended as fast as it had begun. Aziraphale let out a sudden gasp and realized he hadn’t yet undone the strap of his bra. When he turned, the door was wide open. As it had always been. It left an uneasy feeling in his gut, but he dropped his bra and pulled his night shirt on over his head. He needed to sleep, but the sudden idea of it had him quaking. That had been—that had been everything he didn’t know he didn’t want. It had been _them_. _Them_ , as one, and two, all at once. He gripped uselessly over his stomach and gasped for it all, like a feeling had overtaken him and did not take prisoners. Like he might cry, collapse, and lose everything in a blink, in a breath.

He called out, he _cried_ out in a desperate plea, for Crowley. For Crowley to come to him, immediately, because he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He couldn’t move. The bed was suddenly so far away that the idea of moving towards it to sit down left him nauseous and afraid all at once. And still, he never hit the ground. All he knew was that suddenly, Crowley was there with his arms around him, and they were on the floor. Aziraphale suddenly couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t have enough of his body against Crowley’s. Couldn’t _feel_ enough of him, to know he was there. That they both were there, that everything was fine. He’d stopped breathing somewhere between the shout and the fall, and all he could hear now was Crowley’s poor attempt at trying.

“Angel—angel, sh,” Crowley shushed him. “It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re alright—angel, please.”

Crowley rocked him with his head tucked up under his chin, a tight hand on his back. Trying to keep him grounded, and they were _both_ shaking now. Crowley had felt his heart stop when Aziraphale had shrieked for him. He’d assumed the worst, immediately, that he’d been hurt—that Raguel had returned and broken her promise. That they were each in equal measure about to die right there in Crowley’s flat, but he had just found Aziraphale standing there, shaking and ready to collapse. He had collapsed, then, just before Crowley could make it to him, and they had dropped to the floor together in Crowley’s haste to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.

“Aziraphale, what’s wrong? What happened to you? What—” Crowley tried to shift him, but Aziraphale just held to him tighter.

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” Aziraphale admitted. He couldn’t quite regain control over his body or the shivering. “Please don’t leave, Crowley, please—”

“I’m not going anywhere, angel,” Crowley pulled him closer, into his lap nearly. “I’m right here. Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure—I saw them. I saw them, the children— _our_ children, clear as day, just standing by the door. Oh—I wish I knew why it was so _frightening_ ,” Aziraphale gripped harder into his arms.

“You saw them?” Crowley seemed more in awe than in fear, but he did not release his hold. He could see how shaken Aziraphale was.

“They were just _light_ , Crowley. Pure light, and they—they had _shapes_ and _voices_ and—” he stopped and pulled back, finally in control enough to really look at Crowley. He could see the dread in Crowley’s face, the fear in how much he’d startled him

“We really should start thinking of names,” Aziraphale whispered. “They’re real. They have forms and voices and, I just think, I think it would be good of us.”

“We can think of names, then,” Crowley said, pulling Aziraphale back into his chest. “Did they say anything to you? You’re just so shaken I hardly think just seeing our kids would—”

“They apologized,” Aziraphale managed. He explained it the best that he could make sense of it. Pulling apart would make it harder for Heaven and Hell to find them, but it would mean they would require two bodies, two minds, and two souls. Double the development and double the work, and Aziraphale would have to bear that burden. They would be using _him_ to fuel their growth, like any child would do, but they were not children. They were something else entirely, made of magic and stars and light all born into a single bright form that found conscience enough within days to split into two. It was terrifying to think of, really, when it came to that kind of power. Aziraphale didn’t want to imagine what more they would be able to do; all that mattered now was that they would grow.

“They’ll keep hunting them, too,” Aziraphale finished.

“Let them hunt, then,” Crowley pressed a kiss into his temple. “They’ll never find us, and they’ll never win. And as for you, whatever consequence you’ll face for this, I’ll be here to take care of you. You should focus on them and them only. Let me do the rest.”

“But Crowley—”

“Let me take care of you, angel. Please.” And he said it with such a genuine bit of care in his throat that Aziraphale really couldn’t think of anything to say in return. He just leaned his cheek into Crowley’s chest and closed his eyes for a minute.

Aziraphale had always believed he could take care of himself, and he could. He’d been doing it for centuries before Crowley had become anything at all significant in his life. He didn’t _need_ Crowley to take care of him at all, in any capacity. But he did certainly enjoy it and the sentiment behind it. That Crowley cared for him so deeply that he would devote his days to him, to tend to his whims and his problems. This time, however, Crowley’s invitation sounded something so sweet instead. Because he was right. Aziraphale needed to focus all of his energy on the kids. The children. Making sure that they grew well and strong, and that they would make it to the end. He had no idea how long that might take, and they didn’t seem to either, from their lack of response in what Aziraphale now called a dream.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Alright. I’ll be in your care, then.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Crowley,” Crowley teased, once again kissing into Aziraphale’s hair and smiling.

Aziraphale only rolled his eyes. Then, Crowley helped him straight into bed, tucked up underneath the silks and the quilts. Aziraphale was snug against the plush mound of pillows, and he stayed like that until Crowley brought back a full glass of water and a tray. The tray was nothing fancy, a simple bit of crackers, cheeses, and meats, but it would server well enough as a snack if Aziraphale needed to eat more, and he would need to. He would be hungry, and he would be tired, until the children were ready to be born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, we move to the house
> 
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> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back with another chapter. this one is a bit shorter cuz i was having trouble figuring out what to do, but here she is. in all of her glory. we get to see the kids again! 𓆏
> 
> hope you enjoy!

In photos, the cottage had been one thing, and it had been beautiful. In life, now that they were standing in front of it, it was everything. The roof was a darkened blue in old fashioned shingles, with shutters all to match. Each front window had a flower box, and there was a porch that spanned the space beneath from window to window stained a lovely cherry. There was a fence, but less than a fence and more of a privacy wall that surrounded the property and segmented out by two gates. One was small and led to the stone path, to the porch and the door. The second gate was large and blocked off the driveway, which would be just large enough for the Bentley. Already out front there was a garden growing, though it would need some extensive care. And new plants. Crowley already had an eye for it.

Inside, there were a few issues. The water heater needed replaced, and there were scuffs on the floor. Crowley had already shoved out an enormous amount of money to buy the thing, so he wasn’t about to spend money to _fix_ it either. He snapped his fingers as they meandered through the hall and poked into each of the rooms. Each bedroom, that bathrooms, the cellar. The kitchen, which Aziraphale grinned at as he ran of his fingertips over the counter. It was a dark green marble laced with black and white. There were ivy leaves on the walls in a paper so ugly that it was endearingly precious. Aziraphale didn’t want to get rid of it.

“It’s like our own little Eden, dear,” he mused.

Crowley promptly dropped his glasses back over his eyes and made no such further comment on the thing. His idea of an Eden would have been some sleek patio furniture outside where Aziraphale could sit and read his books while Crowley worked in the gardens and their kids ran out in the yard and played. But that wasn’t quite possible yet. No kids. The kitchen would have to do. And the bathroom, where they found that ugly wallpaper again. And even in one of the bedrooms. It wasn’t the _master_ bedroom, though, and after one sore look in the eye, Crowley snapped his fingers for a similar design on the walls there, too. Not the wallpaper, and certainly not identical, but the idea of ivy leaves draped around the ceilings etched into the walls like markings. Which, Aziraphale loved enough that it wove its way around the house, next. Until it felt a bit more like home.

Without having done a lick of work, they stopped for lunch. More appropriately, Aziraphale stopped for a mid-morning snack the moment his stomach had started growling again. Crowley had taken the Bentley into town, while Aziraphale continued to explore, and brought him back something warm and fresh and made mostly of bread. Then, while Aziraphale sat perched on the edge of the porch steps to eat, Crowley got to work. The time for manual labor was over and done with. Now that they were here, out and about without a soul in sight, Crowley could just use _magic_ to unload the truck. Another miracle would return it, but that was for later.

For now, one by one by one, their furniture appeared in the house just where Crowley liked it. They had saved most of his furniture, and he used it as a starting point. The overly lush bed was planted square against the far wall in the master bedroom, the dress and armoire following suit. The furniture from the lounge appeared in what Crowley deemed a living space, and the television mounted on the wall without an issue. Then, they hadn’t ever much had need for a dining room table, so that area would become the new study. The bathroom was filled, dressed, and adorned. A rug rolled out on the floor, and the tub suddenly turned a sensuous black. He’d get Aziraphale’s seal of approval after his lunch, which he was still eating.

The plants, Crowley wanted to do by hand. Not because he particularly cared if they were messed up, but because then he could be absolutely sure that no mistakes were made. That, and that no one had slacked off for the move. Any plant with a leaf spot would be disposed of, immediately. Even the laceleaf, which he had grown so fond of. The laceleaf might get its place at the table, though. When they got one. If they got one—that wouldn’t be necessary unless the kids needed to eat, too. And, currently, there was no way to tell. As far as Crowley could figure, Aziraphale needing to eat was no different than just requiring supplemental fuel. The angelic part of him was meant to fuel him, and him alone. Food worked quite well for fuel on the human side. Must be, since humans ate quite a lot of it.

“Done already?” Aziraphale asked, popping the last bit of his pastry into his mouth. Crowley had plopped down on the porch beside him and huffed, leaning onto his hands.

“Plants are next. Everything else is set up, just need approval on the layout.”

“Oh, I trust what you’ve done.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “and you saw it when?”

“I haven’t. I can _feel_ it though. You’ve put so much love into the arrangement, well—”

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley grumbled and pushed back up to his feet.

Aziraphale smiled after him, a fond little thing, and set his plate down on the porch. He looked around the space before him, at the grass and the stone path and the garden. The garden needed work, and he wondered briefly if Crowley meant to start on that immediately. Regardless, he joined him at the truck where he would not take no for an answer when he picked up the laceleaf. It was still relatively small, though positively bursting with bright and lovely red. Which meant that Aziraphale could hold it and carry it inside, and he’d return for the even smaller coleus, while Crowley worked with the big plants. Aziraphale wasn’t quite ready to feel useless, and certainly not ready to condemn himself to bed for the rest of some unforeseen amount of time. So, the plants. Crowley wouldn’t dare stop him, if he knew what was good.

Once inside, Aziraphale took in the layout of the living area. Of the should-be dining room turned study. And he could see Crowley’s kitchen equipment sitting on the counter. Well. Their kitchen equipment, Aziraphale supposed. Crowley pointed to that same counter as a place to leave the plants, for now. He _did_ intend to plant some of them outside. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even in the same week, but he did intend for it. There would be no real use for a plant room, like he’d had at the flat. Especially because the spare room on the bottom floor had a very specific use. Once they got the plants settle, Crowley took Aziraphale back to it.

And the room was full of boxes, yes, and furniture. Very specific furniture that had Aziraphale’s eyes wide with stars and a dropped jaw. There was a window, large enough with a sill to sit in, that shone out into the room and left it bright. Even without a single lamp, the room felt so full and warm. And the boxes—oh, Aziraphale knew the boxes. He knew the shelves, the desk. He knew all of it so wonderfully well that there was nothing left to be upset about—how they’d had to sell the bookshop. The money would support a future, and _this_ was just enough remnant of the past that Aziraphale wouldn’t feel quite so empty about it.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale turned to him, smiling. Crowley smiled back.

“You like it? Thought it’d suit you.”

“Do I like it? Very much, dear. I love it. I’m—I’m in awe, I’d say,” and he turned back to look at it. All of his books were here, and some of the shelves from the shop. It wouldn’t be a shop, no, but it would be a library. A personal and private space, all but quiet, where Aziraphale could hole away if he needed. Where he could keep to himself and read, and what a calming idea. He would have to ready it, of course, but his desk was there. His armchair. Everything he needed to make a cozy little den. And—well, of course.

“I could teach the kids to read here,” Aziraphale said, muffled only by the press of his hands to his lips. Like a sudden shock he hadn’t realized before. Crowley’s grin said that he’d been thinking that exact thing, and he pointed to the armchair.

“I could bring the sofa back in, if you’d prefer. But, figured there might be something for a kid in your lap with a book, hm?”

Aziraphale couldn’t form the words. He just nodded. That image was just something wonderful, and he thought about it for a long time, just there in the doorway. Himself sitting in the chair with a little girl curled up on his lap, and oh she would look like Crowley with his striking red hair and yellow eyes. Yes, she would be quite unstoppable for that alone, and she would be so attentive just in his same way. Only with reading. And she would read with him, there, in the sunlight. Something about the thought had been intensely real, like a vision, and he watched the girl’s hair in his sight dip a strawberry blonde, instead. His hand moved idly over his stomach.

“Angel?” Crowley said.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m here,” Aziraphale looked back over his shoulder. Crowley was leaning into the door frame, his arms and ankles crossed. But there was a fond little look in his eyes, creeping out from where his glasses had fallen the length of his nose.

“Thinking about something in particular?”

“I think we should start thinking about names. I think—well, I think I’ve seen one of them. Just now.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and stepped away from the door. “Seen one of them? Angel—”

“In a vision. I think—I think they’re sending me visions. Like the other night, back at the flat,” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his chest.

Crowley nodded, dumbly.

“I just think _names_ would be easier, at this point. To refer to them, you understand. Right? I’m not going too fast?”

“Angel,” Crowley laughed, “you could never go too fast. If you want to think about names, we’ll think about names.”

“Oh, but what about the garden? Did you mean to start that today?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. I think we need time to settle in, don’t you think? I wasn’t planning on starting until Monday.” Though this was something easily changed, should he have a mind.

“Monday,” Aziraphale repeated, then mulled it over. “So, we could settle in with some tea and talk about names?”

“You’ve already got some in mind?” Crowley didn’t seem too shocked about that idea but did smile when Aziraphale shook his head. No names, just an incessant curiosity and readiness.

It was only after Aziraphale had brewed two particular cups of citrus green tea that he and Crowley sat down on the white leather sofa in the main room. The other sofa, Aziraphale’s plush little one from the shop, was in their bedroom. Given the time, that sofa was more or less an antique. If they were going to have children, Crowley would rather they spilled juice on the leather. Leather was a bit easier to clean when juice was involved. Upholstery that was hundreds of years old would be ruined. The leather was comfortable enough, anyway. Crowley had always liked it. Though, he wouldn’t _admit_ to liking his own furniture. Even if their new home was filled with it.

Aziraphale did admit to liking it, which was why the new home was filled with it. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to get rid of it any more than Crowley did. Though, arrangements would have to be made for softer edges when twins went toddling around. Ethereal, occult, supernatural beings may they be, they could still get hurt. They wouldn’t if Aziraphale had anything to say, and the room bristled a bit warmer at the sentiment. Crowley even shifted and tugged at the collar of his shirt. The heat died off a bit, then, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the fond smile that brushed over him. They were just _excited_ , and Aziraphale wouldn’t—couldn’t—blame them. He was excited too. Crowley was excited. The only thing standing between them and _family_ was time.

Names, however, were a story altogether different. They sat in silence for a long moment, the telly on in the background then, and thought. Crowley, even with an imagination, hadn’t spared a single second to what they might actually _call_ the kids, and had assumed Aziraphale had done all the thinking for him. In extreme contrast, Aziraphale had hoped Crowley had some opinion one way or the other about names. And neither one of them had said a thing for ten minutes, then, and had lulled into watching a rerun.

“So, for the girl—” Aziraphale started.

“Angel,” Crowley drawled at him, “you can’t just assume the one with long hair is a girl. That’s quite rude of you.”

Aziraphale’s nose crinkled, “yes, well. She’s _told_ me, she’s a girl. I think it’s quite fair to assume she’s not lying.”

“Oh,” Crowley said.

“Yes, ‘oh’.”

“So, the girl, then. The other one a boy?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and sipped on his tea. Aziraphale only nodded. “One of each.”

“Indeed. I suppose it means we didn’t have to choose.”

“Bet they heard that conversation, yeah?”

Aziraphale snorted at the thought. Crowley _had_ asked him, before, if he’d wanted a boy or a girl. And now they would have both. Cut out the middleman of choice.

“Well, what about something like Cynthia?”

Crowley soured before the air did. “Cynthia? Are we living in the 1800s again?”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale scowled. “It’s a perfectly fine name.” Regardless of the fact that _she_ didn’t seem to like it either. Aziraphale huffed and knew he’d been quite defeated.

The names went on like that for a while. Old names that had been popular back where Aziraphale’s fashion sense had stopped updating with the times. Victoria, Frances, Charlotte—nothing seemed to sound right, and nothing seemed to make the room feel any better. Crowley was shifting uncomfortably about it, like he was hot and cold all at the same time. Aziraphale hadn’t much noticed, but he had taken to munching on some pretzels he’d whipped right up out of thin air. What a thought. With no girl’s name, they moved onto the boy, the other one. And nothing changed. With sour air and old-fashioned names, Crowley frowned.

It wasn’t as though he had even a single better idea. The best he could come up with were the generics—John, Mary, Grant. Nothing exciting. Nothing identifying, really. Not in his mind. If they were going to walk around on earth with names like Aziraphale and Crowley—surely their children needed something equally as out-of-the-ordinary. Crowley would have it no other way, and he did not precisely mean names from the Victorian Age. The age of the names didn’t bother him, it was that they _sounded_ old. Vintage names had their place, but usually only when they were fit to be modernized. Crowley was sure there was no way to modernize Constance.

Surely, their children should have names that meant something. Something to them, specifically, and something unique enough that it would fit right into the strange little family they were creating. It got Crowley thinking back on the people they’d met over the years. Oscar seemed a bit too inappropriate, and Crowley sniffed about it. Some of the names fell into the earlier category of old and unable to be modernized. Which left Crowley going back farther and farther until he stopped and looked over Aziraphale. Surely, it would be alright. Aziraphale seemed to _like_ old names.

“Angel,” Crowley said.

Whatever Aziraphale had been saying—Crowley hadn’t been listening—stopped right short and they were staring at each other again. “Yes?”

“What about something _older_. A bit, well, regal, I suppose,” he sipped on his tea.

“Like an old king?” they were still talking about the boy. The girl seemed a bit too _picky_ for their imaginative span at the moment.

Crowley nodded.

“Well, I hadn’t considered it. Many kings have those _generic_ names, as you call them. I don’t quite agree. I think James would be a fine—”

“Not on my watch, it won’t be.”

“Please, dear. Your name is _Anthony_.”

“Yes, and it’s got more character than James. No, we’re not naming the kid Anthony, either.”

“Hadn’t even suggested it,” Aziraphale said, sipping well on his tea and knowing exactly what he’d just said.

Crowley frowned, but he didn’t comment. It wasn’t as though he _wanted_ to name the kid Anthony. Clearly. Since he’d said that. Didn’t mean Aziraphale had to agree with him so readily. Still, they pressed on thinking about names. Thinking farther and farther back until it suddenly dawned on Aziraphale that Crowley had meant somewhere near the beginning of _time._ It was quite romantic, really, when he figured it out and smiled over the edge of his teacup. It was the oldest story ever told, of course.

“Gilgamesh,” Aziraphale said. The room bristled.

“Always did consider him one of your greatest conquests, you,” Crowley replied. “The whole new leaf and everything.”

“Yes, I found he did turn out rather agreeable.”

“Shame what happened to his friend, though.”

“Crowley, I’ve told you countless times, they were not just friends,” Aziraphale huffed, leaning over into the armrest of the sofa.

“Either way,” Crowley shrugged. “Gilgamesh. Sounds like a nice name.”

Yes. Gilgamesh. They were in agreement. Aziraphale smoothed an idle hand over his stomach and smiled, because _Gilgamesh_ seemed to be in agreement too. The girl, of course, was a bit put out she had no name. But they would get there. Out here in the South Downs, they had all the time in the _world._ That might not have been entirely true, but it was safer than the flat and the bookshop. For now. It wasn’t as if Hell and Heaven would never find them again, but the point wasn’t to stay hidden forever. The point was to stay hidden just long enough that their children would have the chance to survive. It wasn’t very righteous or fair to kill something that hadn’t even a chance to exist, anyway. Crowley didn’t think so.

After the show ended, Crowley popped up from the sofa to make a bit of proper lunch. Or, whatever it was that fell between the meals of lunch and dinner, because it was far past lunch time. Aziraphale didn’t particularly care what time of day it was; if Crowley brought him food, he would happily eat it. And he did eat whatever quick chicken dish Crowley had whipped up, legs pulled up on the sofa while he watched reruns. He gave an idle sound of acknowledgment when Crowley said he was stepping out—plants and all—and then things went quiet.

Aziraphale ate quicker than he usually did, and the meal was gone before the show had even reached mid-point. Which was fine, he hadn’t been too interested anyway. He was more interested in the house, for what it was. It was still just a house, and it might take more effort to make it home than sitting on a familiar sofa. Things were calm, too, which meant he’d have a bit of leeway in what he could do. It wasn’t entirely that the children bothered him. Even if they did, he would never admit that anywhere they could hear. It was just the implication of their _power_ , how it followed him everywhere he went. But they did seem to sleep just as well as any human, and in these lulls of dead air, Aziraphale got work done.

Not only did he clean the dishes, but he got everything stacked away in the cabinets. Cups, bowls, and plastic. They didn’t have very much, mind, and the plates were a black stone square sort of thing that Aziraphale would not have wanted anywhere _near_ someone under forty years-old, at the youngest. Even if their cabinets weren’t full now, they would be. Especially if the children took to eating, and he really hoped they did. Cups were another story, though, because Crowley had always had a penchant for alcohol. He had every type of alcoholic glass Aziraphale could think of, and then a second one for nights spent together. The glassware went on the top shelf, where Aziraphale had to use a stool, along with anything that even resembled the idea of alcohol. The mugs and regular cups stayed on the bottom. He could already see a cute little place for children cups, too. Gilgamesh might like one with lions on it, he thought. Or a bull.

After the kitchen, Aziraphale took a minute just to breathe. To feel the house. Now that he was in it, it felt different. Love poured out of the walls, out of the dusty corners and the cobwebs. It had been vacant before they arrived, and would need to be cleaned, but within moments—the love was there, and it was _real._ Even if the kitchen counter was chipped, and even if the stairs down into the basement were a bit creaky. Aziraphale didn’t mind. The flaws were charms, all at once, and he smiled while he walked down the hall. At the end was the room Crowley had showed him, sectioned off with his bookshelves and his boxes. His own little haven.

The shelves had all been arranged rather nicely, with the desk just a straight walk from the door to where the window was. Crowley had an eye for this sort of thing: layout, function, and design. Aziraphale appreciated it and found that he rather liked the layout of the room. He might definitely like the sofa back, however. That could wait. For now, he wanted to unpack his books and look at them and find them new places to live. He’d have to sort them again, by name and by author, by genre and by edition. But he would enjoy it. Being with his books like this would be the last real memory of the bookshop, now just an empty building back in Soho. He did spare a thought to who might have bought it and what it might become, but then he opened the first box.

This was the box full of children books. Surely, something led him to it. It wasn’t even the first box in the room, just the first one that he’d ducked down beside. The entire series of _Just William_ was stacked together nicely, spine up, where Aziraphale could run his fingers over the words and smile. A gift from Adam that he had refused to let go, and certainly wouldn’t. Now, it might be the first series he would get to read his _own_ children. No more thinking about getting rid of his small collection and no more feeling bad for neglecting it. The books would get solid use, and he would make sure of it. He even set out to put them on the smallest shelf he had, the one that sat only 2 shelves high and quiet on the ground. A hardwood floor, he noted, as was most of the house. He might have to invest in a floor rug. One of the big, plush round ones, perfect for sitting on and reading.

He had heard a few things about children’s furniture too. Little chairs shaped like animals or bean bags. Maybe it wasn’t classy, but he could see it spread out in his haven, there. In front of him. On a dark blue carpet, a little boy with a mop of hair sitting with his legs pulled up and reading a big book with more pictures than words. The sight felt so real that if Aziraphale had reached out, he might have _touched_ the boy. He even tried, and in the moment, the boy seemed to look at him. Nothing about him was defined, save his hair. A shock of strawberry blond—Aziraphale had seen the color before. On the girl. The rest of the boy seemed, well. Shapeless stardust in the vague idea of a boy. And Aziraphale had to wonder.

“Gilgamesh?” he asked.

The boy _did_ look at him, and in a voice not quite unlike the one he heard in the back of his mind when he read to himself, he heard: “Hello.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale found himself sitting back on the floor, braced on his hands, and breathing hard. As if nothing had happened. The box of books was still half unpacked, everything in its place, with no chair and no boy. But it was Gilgamesh. _He_ was Gilgamesh. He already knew. That did leave the unfortunate ordeal of thinking about a name for the girl, but they would get there. Eventually. Aziraphale was sure _something_ would be good enough for her.

It was somewhere near seven-thirty when Aziraphale decided he was done of the day. Exhaustion was creeping its way up his spine in all manners of uninvited, and Crowley had yet to come back inside. Thirdly, of course, it was past dinner time. If he went out to find Crowley, maybe he could convince him to make something for dinner, or at least to make a purchase of it. Provided, of course, that Crowley wasn’t _tired,_ or something. Either way. Once Aziraphale had pulled his shoes back on, he stepped out of the front door only to freeze on the porch and stare.

Crowley was there, still wearing his jeans and button up. His jacket was draped over the railing of the porch, and his sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows. There was a significant lack of the necktie, too, which Aziraphale found rather enticing. That aside, _all_ of Crowley’s plants were in the ground, now, out in a garden that surely hadn’t been there when they arrived. Empty pots were settled up against the porch stairs, and there was dirt spread out. The coleus and the laceleaf had survived transport and would stay in the house. But this. This was amazing. Aziraphale leaned over the railing and smiled.

“Crowley, dear, this looks marvelous.”

Crowley jerked and nearly fell back flat on his arse, but he caught himself on his hands and looked at Aziraphale. “Angel. Hey. Hi. Hello.”

“Hello,” Aziraphale grinned.

“You like it, do you?”

“Quite the view, yes,” and he was certainly looking nowhere near the plants. Crowley stiffened and straightened up his shirt.

“Well then. Did you need something?”

“I was hoping something about dinner and maybe you coming inside. It’s getting late. It’s rather nippy out here, too, don’t you think?”

Crowley hadn’t quite gotten past the word nippy, but he hadn’t realized that either, no. He’d been perfectly warm, close as he was to the house. It gave him pause enough to think on about the pure _power_ that was radiating. And how they hadn’t had an army of angels and demons at their door yet, but that was fine. He wouldn’t complain about anything going on, especially not with Aziraphale looking at him with that cute little smile. Dinner suddenly sounded nice. Dinner, maybe some wine. Though, Aziraphale probably shouldn’t be drinking any wine. There weren’t exactly any books talking about the effects of alcohol on supernatural would-be fetuses.

“Let me clean up,” Crowley said. “I’ll whip something up. Maybe you dress down for the night, yeah?”

Aziraphale looked down and realized, after _hours_ , that he was still dressed up rather fine for what he’d been doing. His skirt was positively wrinkled, now, but there would be time for laundry. He took Crowley’s comment to heart and ducked back into the house. He dressed down into his night shirt before he let himself really explore the master bedroom. It was well sized, and the closet was larger than the one at the flat. Then, of course, there was the _bed._ They’d brought Crowley’s bed, because it was large and indulgent and luxurious. Aziraphale didn’t want to get used to sleeping on something else, not when Crowley’s bed existed. Even if it stuck out like a sore thumb with the ivy wallpaper. It was all he could do to keep from flinging himself down onto it for bed. At eight. Instead, he simply sat down and listened as the shower popped on.

By the time the shower was finished, Aziraphale was out sitting on the sofa again with the telly on. Crowley walked out not ten minutes later, dressed in his rather showy set of silk, black pajamas. Dinner, a few moments later, was nothing short of a miracle, and it was all for Aziraphale. Served promptly on the stupidly sharp coffee table in front of the telly, because they didn’t _have_ a dining room table. No sense in moving to the eat-in part of the kitchen if Aziraphale was already comfortable. Crowley, who quite rather liked his sofa, was comfortable a moment later with his thigh pressed up against Aziraphale’s.

Before this exact day, Aziraphale hadn’t been much of a watcher of any kind. Unless it was a live play, orchestra, or the opera, Aziraphale preferred to read or listen to the radio. A record player, even, and they did have one of those still. All of that required a significant amount of effort, where the television did not. What’s more, Aziraphale seemed a stickler for cooking shows. Those had never been Crowley’s favorite, but if Aziraphale wanted to learn how to make a rhubarb pie, then that was entirely within his right. Crowley sipped on a bit of wine, anyway. Less occupied with the show and more occupied with Aziraphale.

“Feeling alright, angel?” Crowley asked, another sip of the wine.

Aziraphale finished chewing then nodded, “quite. I would definitely enjoy a glass of what you’re having, though.”

“No.”

“What do you _mean_ ‘no’?” Aziraphale’s nose crinkled.

“I mean what I said. No. You’ve got, well,” Crowley gestured quite like he was too embarrassed to say it aloud. He muttered it instead.

“Sorry, dear, you’ll have to speak up.”

“You’re pregnant,” he muttered into the rim of his glass.

“Yes, I think I realized that, myself. Don’t think _one_ glass of wine will hurt anything,” and the air around them agreed. Crowley didn’t, however, but he knew when he’d been thwarted. Their compromise happened when Crowley just handed over his glass of wine to one very wide-eyed Aziraphale.

“I’ll get another,” Crowley explained.

If that was all he could get, then fine. Aziraphale wouldn’t complain. This was one of those newer, cheaper bottles of wine, so it didn’t matter how fast they went through it. And it certainly wouldn’t matter if they sobered up when they were done. Not that Crowley would let Aziraphale get anywhere _near_ drunk. Maybe he was being over-protective, but they were both better off safe than any other possible situation that could arise. No drunk. Small amounts of alcohol. And Crowley pulled his feet up onto the couch to _pout_ about it. On the television, the lady had started rolling dough.

“I was thinking more about names,” Aziraphale said, clearly lying. He didn’t present any names after that, even after Crowley regarded him with _curiosity._ Maybe Aziraphale had been thinking, but he hadn’t been doing a good job of it. There was the pressure of perfection hanging over him, currently. That if they didn’t pick the right name something would go wrong.

He looked at Crowley, then. He’d seen the girl, just once, in that vision in the bookshop. She’d been much like Gilgamesh in that nothing about her had really taken shape outside of stardust, save for her hair. And her eyes. She’d had distinctly yellow eyes—they’d quite pierced Aziraphale to a point where he could still feel her looking at him. It meant one thing, regardless of little details, that she _would_ take after Crowley. Maybe Gilgamesh was still deciding, but they both had the same hair. That aside. They had named Gilgamesh for Aziraphale, already, because he did quite regard the old king as one of his greatest achievements. It only made sense to name the girl for Crowley; she was already quite taken with him.

But it still begged the question what a name would be. Crowley had an excessive number of good traits, Aziraphale always thought. From the way he walked to the way his eyes shined. This unending amount of confidence, how he could control a room at the snap of a finger. That part might have been magic, but people _flocked_ to him. He made friends. He knew how to talk, how to walk, how to handle himself. Never uncomfortable. Crowley was suave, he was cool. And he _liked_ Aziraphale, who was quite decidedly none of these things.

Crowley had hobbies too. More than just incessantly reading and buying books. Crowley liked music. He was good with computers. He worked with plants. All of it was wonderful. Apparently, he could even work interior design when pressed, which left their whole house feeling warm and lived in. Closer to a home than it had been twelve hours previous, anyway. The only issue remained was this was how Aziraphale saw Crowley. Crowley saw Crowley entirely opposite, which meant no matter what Aziraphale would say, Crowley had a retort. Some rebuttal that put himself down for things that Aziraphale saw the world in. If there was one thing that Crowley didn’t hate, Aziraphale would have to think on it. Just because this was important, and he didn’t quite ever have the energy to listen to Crowley loathe on himself. All of it unfounded.

After Aziraphale finished his meal, he took it to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Even if Crowley had insisted no short of five times that he had no interest in watching cookie shows, he was _entranced_ by this particular episode. The lady was putting together some modernized and fancy version of macaroni and cheese. Aziraphale hadn’t much been interested in that, preferring sweets, but Crowley had talked about making sure their children had _taste._ Even if Aziraphale was sure that Crowley would eat the most of it—he probably deserved food every now and again. While it may not be his preferred vice, he did _like_ food. He did eat food. Just significantly faster than Aziraphale, at the worst of times.

From the sink, Aziraphale could see out the window. There was a little sill, perfect for some small plants should they stop into town to pick some up, and off-white boarders around the glass. But none of that mattered as much as the outside did. It was dark, and out away from the city, there were _stars_ everywhere. Speckled polka dots all up and in the sky, some shining and bright, while others were smaller and farther away. Aziraphale had never much understood stars and why they looked the way they did, where they came from or how. But he did know _one_ thing about stars. Nothing technical and nothing poetic, but he did know one thing.

“Crowley?” he called.

Crowley was there in a second, like he’d miracled himself there instead of walking. An immediate cause to panic at the sound of his name, which was endearing as much as it was frightening. Aziraphale blinked at him before setting a dish off to dry and regaining himself.

“You created stars, didn’t you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Some of them,” Crowley slurred. “Why? They look bad or something?” he peered out the window like he really had any control, anymore, over what the stars looked like.

“Heavens, no, Crowley. Why do you always assume the worst?” Aziraphale sighed. But then there were arms around his waist and Crowley’s chin on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, kissing his ear. He meant it, probably. At least, he did _kiss_ Aziraphale again, which was nice.

“I was just thinking, I suppose. Stars. They’re really all you, and they’re always quite lovely.”

Crowley shifted behind him, uncomfortable, as he usually was when Aziraphale said something nice that he couldn’t refuse.

“A long while back, there was this story. Back when humans believed in the pantheon of gods, you know. Not quite as far back as Gilgamesh, this story, but it’s old. It was about a goddess of _justice._ ” Aziraphale squeezed his hands over Crowley’s, to keep him from leaving. “She was known as the star-maiden and was said to be the last immortal on earth before she was so disgusted with humanity that she left of her own accord, back to the gods.”

“Nice story,” Crowley mused.

“Yes, well. I’m not done yet,” he tapped Crowley’s hand. “She had a name, you know. The star-maiden.”

Crowley was listening.

“Her name was Astraea, and—” oh, but the whole _room_ lit up then, like the stars had come down from the sky to dance around them in _joy_ , because that was it. _That_ was her name. She’d chosen it before either of them had the mind to think for it, and now that it’d been said, she _claimed_ it. It was hers. They wouldn’t take it from her, because they loved her so desperately that she would have anything she wanted. She bristled when their hands pressed tighter over Aziraphale’s belly, the place the energy congregated.

“She liked that,” Crowley observed. “She liked that a lot.”

“Oh, Astraea,” Aziraphale whispered her name, smiling down. “Gilgamesh and Astraea—I like these names, Crowley. I really, really like them.”

“I do too,” and Crowley’s voice was so soft that Aziraphale barely heard him. He turned around in Crowley’s arms to see his face, red and blotched with tears he would refuse to cry. They were happy tears, though, and a happy look on his face where his eyes and cheeks wrinkled around his wide grin.

They might have kissed, but Crowley fell into him instead to bury his face against Aziraphale’s neck and _hold_ him. He wanted to hold Aziraphale as close as he could for as long as he could. This was a step, and something had welled up in him. Something as beautiful as it was horrific. Thoughts about what this would mean. Names were so powerful, and they may have just inadvertently created something _more_ than they had. A goddess of justice who despised humanity and an old king who made a name through theft and murder. But it wasn’t the past that would define them, not really. The future was a better thing, and it would start in the kitchen with dishes half done where Crowley and Aziraphale _did_ kiss.

The dishes remained half-done. The television eventually turned itself off, a built-in feature that Crowley would hate every night except this night, because they had wandered up and into the master bedroom. The children knew well enough by now when they didn’t need to be around, and it always started with Crowley’s hands dangerously low on Aziraphale’s hips. Under his nightshirt, then, and feeling over the rolls of his middle. A slow crawl up, farther, until he could feel the swell of Aziraphale’s breasts in his hands, the pert rise of his nipples. They still hadn’t stopped kissing, not since the kitchen, and Crowley would sooner discorporate than _ever_ have to stop touching. Not now.

Crowley hated using miracles for things specifically related to undressing and the bed, but he would make an exception this time, so he didn’t have to pull away. And the press of _skin_ was glorious. Was wonderful. Everything Crowley could have wanted, and he only took a moment away from the kiss to admire Aziraphale. To feel him, to look at him. To marvel at everything that Aziraphale had sought to give him. This form, their _children_ , and an amount of love that no demon anywhere, ever, had any right to know. Crowley was one of them, but he still had it. He could feel it in the way Aziraphale smiled at him. Nothing short of some ridiculous amount of love that anyone other than Crowley could have been worthy of, but it was Crowley’s. Crowley’s alone. All for him.

By the time morning came, things fell into routine. Crowley gardened in the morning while Aziraphale worked in his new library. They ate meals together, they drank together. Aziraphale had even gotten over a craving for wine, and he picked up drinking juice. Apple juice proved to be his favorite, so far, while Crowley went through their cheap bottle of wine. The expensive and old ones would be saved for celebration, after the fact. And for it all, they visited town every now and again. Crowley bought more plants to fill the inside of the home and even managed to bring back a book or two. It really had become _home_ at that point, for the two weeks they’d been there. Two weeks and the cottage felt as if it was where they were meant to be.

Outside, the garden was turning steadily into an Eden. There was patio furniture out on the deck where Aziraphale could read while Crowley gardened. Crowley had even admitted to already looking at outdoor children toys A playhouse. Maybe he would plant a real sturdy tree and urge it to grow faster so they could have a tree house. He’d never _tried_ handy work like that, but it couldn’t be too hard. Humans did it all the time, and humans didn’t have magic at their disposal. Still, it was something to think about. While Gilgamesh and Astraea learned how to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER hhhhhhhh I'm working on so many things at once right now being in this big bang so we'll see how updating goes. I don't wanna spend too long talking about Time Before Babies but we'll see what happens. please enjoy!

For the time, the sun should have been up already. The clock read afternoon, if Crowley had bothered to read it, but all he did was roll out of a bed he didn’t remember sleeping in. Aziraphale wasn’t there, but in the strange air of the morning, it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Crowley didn’t notice. He didn’t seem to notice anything. Not the plants, not the clocks all different times. Not even the darkness outside looming ever closer by the hour, and hours passed quite quickly. Like days in seconds as Crowley padded through the house, his eyes glassed over with a one-track mind. He just walked. Walked down longer stairs and a farther hallway than he remembered there being, but nothing, still, seemed out of the ordinary.

Even when he turned back, over his shoulder, and the stairs were gone. No doors in the hallway with pictures he hadn’t hung and words he hadn’t spoken. Crowley trudged forward. He stopped in the kitchen for something to drink, a steaming cup of coffee just right on the counter. He didn’t drink coffee. He hardly drank at all, and he certainly didn’t eat. But there was toast sitting next to it that he couldn’t help but take a bite of. It tasted of ash in the back of his mouth, but he didn’t notice. With eyes glassed over and a one-track mind. Things around him dipped in gray and pressed through mirrors. Wrong and distorted as he walked through the living room, but he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel—didn’t _remember_.

He did remember, a time like this. Hidden down in the depths of regret and truth, mixed around until what he thought he knew was nothing but lies and a false hood against _warmth_ and love and things demons didn’t know. But had he ever known them? He didn’t know. He didn’t know now, and he wouldn’t ever. Remembering hurt. It scarred, and it burned him in the ways he _did_ recall and recalled quite often. Like now, in scorching hands on his back that weren’t there as he reached for a door that wasn’t his. The door on the cottage wasn’t red like this, it wasn’t a warning sign. It was soft and brown and everything Aziraphale had loved. But this. This wasn’t it. This was _nothing_ Aziraphale would love.

It was the only thing that had him hesitating at the doorknob. Not the fear. Not the uncertainty. Just the idea of what would be behind this might spell the end of what he’d built, but he pressed on anyway. He turned the knob in hours and days before it opened, and he stepped outside into a world that ended at the front lawn. The rest of everything was dark, save the figures. Just at the edge of the world. Just beyond where Crowley could reach and wouldn’t try to. They all stared at him, as he stepped off the porch, and the light appeared from nowhere.

There was not a figure he recognized, though they circled the house in endless prayer. Demons and angels alike, with white wings, black wings, _no wings._ Crowley felt in ache in his back that he couldn’t describe. He couldn’t remember why he’d come out here. Where he’d stepped into, if this was his place. If he was meant to be here. Wasn’t there something more important? Hadn’t he started something that would surely have no end? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t _remember_. Not a face, not a name. Not any name, but he was sure there were several. The only thing he knew now was how the world started and ended with him, where he stood in the garden and watched the figures that watched him.

The world stopped spinning. The searing pain died out. Crowley gritted his teeth. Before him stood one figure he did recognize, one that he knew. One that set something different burning inside of him, but Crowley was suddenly hard pressed to move as roots and vines wound around his feet and his legs, up to his knees to keep him still. Might have made him fall if he weren’t so stubborn—he _didn_ _’t_ fall. He didn’t so much as saunter vaguely downward, either. And he remembered. He was _thrown._

Gabriel, he might have said, if he could speak. But sound had disappeared. He remembered the screaming. He remembered the Falling. He remembered that there was no other sound he could hear but the screams and the burns. The fire that followed. It had always been _fire._ Fire when he fell, where he landed, and where he stood to save a life. A life—what life? Did he really remember anything? Or was it his own life?

“You did this,” Gabriel told him, stepping forward with a pointed finger to his chest. “But you can undo it, too. There was a time where you could undo _anything_.” Said with such venom that Crowley forgot he was the snake, cursed to his belly for the rest of forever. And he remembered Gabriel, more than he cared to. More recently. Not enough to put the pieces together that hung so unnervingly in the air around him. Demons and angels alike in pain and devotion. God punished all Her creatures. If She knew everything before it happened, didn’t that mean she _let_ it happen? That she had been the one behind it all? There would have never been a demon without, first, an angel.

The world began to spin again.

“We would _forgive_ you, Crowley,” Gabriel said. And Crowley saw it. His place in the world as it spun and spun, the only empty space between the demons and angels, alike. For him. A place where he would fit with just enough space for everything he’d lost. Without a mind, now, to think of what he would lose to step into it. There was a burning in his gut that pressed him forward. There was suddenly nothing holding him back, and maybe there never had been. Maybe it had always been _him_. Holding himself back with fear and uncertainly and—something. Something was holding him back, but he couldn’t place the name. Couldn’t remember what light looked like when it wasn’t Hers.

He heard his name. He heard his name in all the litanies of angel choirs, and it stopped him. Because that wasn’t right. It was something like shouting. Screaming. Voices he didn’t recognize, voices too young to be heard. But he heard them. Heard them screaming. His name. But not his name. Not really. Crowley wasn’t his _name_. He’d made that himself. When he’d decided to be something new. Something had sparked that, and if he could only remember— _his name_. There, again. Shouted louder. A name a knew, a voice he knew, and the smaller ones around it. Gabriel was still waiting. She was still waiting. All he had to do was take the step, but something drew him back. Something turned him to the door, a soft and brown and everything Aziraphale loved.

Aziraphale.

That was the name.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale finally _shouted_ for him, hands over his shoulders without the strength quite enough to shake. But this time, Crowley’s eyes opened, and he jolted awake faster than he’d done in his life. He gripped the armrest for his life and looked around.

The door was brown. The house was normal, set back in its ways with no pictures on the wall, no coffee, and no strange grays. Aziraphale was there, in front of him, with worry over his face. Unneeded stress. Crowley didn’t need to be doing this, not with Aziraphale in this state. The guilt was overridden the moment Aziraphale sighed and smiled. He didn’t hesitate to find himself a place on Crowley’s lap where he could hold him close, pressed against his neck to feel his _breath_. Ragged and uneven. Afraid, even, but Crowley held him back instead of the armrest. He pulled Aziraphale so close that he could feel every bump and roll between them where they touched and met and molded. Crowley sighed and let his eyes close.

It had been three months since they’d arrived in South Downs. Aziraphale was no closer to showing signs of pregnancy than he had been the day he’d found out, but that was fine. His hair was longer, and he had spent the past few days happily helping put together the cribs Crowley had ordered. The custom made, ornate little things that they’d decided were the only cribs worthy of their children. There had been discussion, too, of where they would go. Crowley loved extravagance and thought first about a nursery, but Aziraphale wanted them close. They’d put the first crib in the bedroom, with them, and the other was still laying half assembled on the floor.

Aziraphale had even taken up crocheting in the time, to pass the time when he was finding reading to be a bit straining. He was tired, most days, and tended to keep to the sofa with the cooking channel on. Today had been slightly different. He’d wanted to try his hand at cooking. It’d been quite a time since he’d truly cooked a meal, and Crowley deserved a rest. He’d hardly been sleeping the past months, and all at once, Aziraphale understood why. Maybe the chicken would burn, but that was the least of his concerns. Aziraphale wanted nothing more but to keep close, like this, with Crowley’s nose digging into the tendons on his neck in a way that nearly hurt, if only because it reminded him that Crowley was here and safe. Not where he’d just been, which surely was not the cottage. If it made Crowley feel safe as well, then it was equally as powerful. The touch.

Crowley had been outside that morning, in the garden. It was where he went every morning, dressed in dark jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt. He usually gardened well into the afternoon, but something had struck him about halfway, after pulling weeds and watering, that had him come inside for a nap. The tea Aziraphale had made him was sitting cold on the coffee table, now, but Crowley didn’t seem to care. His arms were full of Aziraphale— _Aziraphale—_ and he wouldn’t rather anything different. Not after that dream. That nightmare. Where he couldn’t even remember Aziraphale’s name. What a horrid thing that made him, to forget Aziraphale? He certainly had no right to be holding him as close as he did now, but he had to. It was almost healing, the weight of him pressed so close. Crowley could get lost in it, between the weight and the warmth that wasn’t entirely his.

No, because on the best of days, Aziraphale felt like a sauna. He was always hot, and in a stubborn insistence that his state of dress not change, the cottage was cold. Crowley could survive well enough in it only because Aziraphale was so warm. It was the heat that radiated away from him that didn’t belong to him that kept Crowley warm. It was the kids—it was Gilgamesh and Astraea apologizing for the toll they were taking by keeping Crowley warm when the house had barely risen past fifty in Fahrenheit the past week. Month. Too long.

“They were worried about you,” Aziraphale finally broke the silence in a timid whisper just above Crowley’s ear. “I hadn’t thought anything was wrong until they told me to check.”

“I’m glad they did,” Crowley slurred his words together and shifted, somehow impossibly bringing Aziraphale closer to him.

“Whatever happened, my dear? You can tell me, if you want to. I’ll listen.”

“Nightmare, that’s all. The ones that happened at the flat, remember?”

“I remember,” Aziraphale nodded. “They were dreadfully terrifying, even for me. I thought they’d gone.”

“No, angel,” Crowley laughed a bit. “No, they’re always here. Just not quite so bad. Not so _real_ —I, I didn’t remember you in this one.”

Aziraphale pulled back and only so he could put his hands on Crowley’s face and kiss his forehead. “That was a dream, Crowley,” he said. “You remember me quite well, I can tell. And the kids?”

“How could I forget?” Crowley smoothed his hands over the round of Aziraphale’s belly. Maybe it was just because of his weight, but what a lovely thing to pretend for the moment that there was something real, there. For the moment, Gilgamesh and Astraea remained a strange and distant energy that just. Congregated where they should every now and again.

Aziraphale had always said they were just trying to learn about the world before they joined it. They’d dedicated their time to that instead of development, which they needed to learn to do. How could they build themselves bodies if they hadn’t any idea what a body could be? The first thing they’d decided on was hair color, after all, which Crowley had found quite amusing when Aziraphale told him. Both of them with strawberry blond hair, some strange mix of Crowley’s own dark red and Aziraphale’s white. Aziraphale still hadn’t told him about the eyes. As far as Crowley knew, they were nothing but stardust with reddish hair. And he liked that. He liked that quite a lot.

They kissed, then, in a sweet and desperate plea of togetherness before Crowley shifted again. This time, uncomfortable. Almost like he was in pain, the same from the dream that shouldn’t have been anything more than a memory. But God wouldn’t let him forget, even as he wanted to and begged to. So, Aziraphale had to move. And he did with such a haste like he’d been the one to burn Crowley, and in worry down on his knees when Crowley doubled over with a hand wrenched around to touch at his back.

“Crowley? Is everything alri—” Aziraphale cut off when suddenly _wings_ were spreading out over the sofa like unpleasant wafts of darkness, tired and hurt. They draped over the back of the leather like they hadn’t the strength to hold on their own, and Crowley was _trembling_.

“Crowley—Crowley, look at me, please,” Aziraphale had his hands back around Crowley’s face, trying to raise his head. But Crowley looked _gone_. He looked out of it, like he couldn’t see what was directly in front of him. His wings looked it too, worse for wear and disheveled.

Aziraphale gulped and turned his attention to them, instead, and left Crowley doubled over his knees in whatever sort of pain he was feeling. Aziraphale circled around the back of the sofa, curling his hair over to one shoulder as he went, and ran his fingers along Crowley’s wing as he did. It flinched, but it didn’t move. Crowley flinched, but all he did was reach for the collar of his t-shirt like it was choking him. He didn’t use his hands, then, just a miracle to do away with the fabric. Aziraphale could see the pain, on his back, and it hurt him nearly as much as it was hurting Crowley.

There were four scars on his back. There always had been. Four large gnashing horrors just around his wings. Two above and two below in varying degrees of length, and in between was where his wings spread out from his back. But the scars were more than scars. Aziraphale had never asked, but he knew. Now, they almost looked like brands freshly burned into Crowley’s flesh. A painful thing. A horrific thing. It had never been this bad before. So bad that Crowley couldn’t form the words to talk about it, or that he’d been helpless to control his wings. All Aziraphale could do for him was soothe his fingers through the feathers.

Aziraphale plucked at them, straightened them, and shifted things around until one wing at a time was back in sleek and beautiful order. The way Crowley liked them to be. Wing preening wasn’t one of Aziraphale’s skills, of which he was sure to only have a few, but he’d been learning with Crowley. Crowley liked to make sure he looked his best, at all times, even his wings where no one could see. Might it have had something to do with vanity and Pride, Aziraphale would understand. Sins were a demon thing. The scars always led him to believe otherwise, though. They looked like Crowley was _missing_ something. Something large that left a strange lopsided weight on the way that he walked, the way that he couldn’t remember quite enough how to walk, at the best of times.

Another tug, and Crowley hissed this time. Even if it hurt, he wouldn’t shy away. He even leaned back into Aziraphale’s touch, at his fingers came closer and closer to the base of his wings. Until Aziraphale could help himself no longer and pressed a smooth palm right in the space there, between the jutting feathers and the bones. Crowley didn’t so much as move, then, just sat there and felt the brush on his flesh. He could feel something tingling that hadn’t been there before, and behind him, Aziraphale gasped.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, no higher than a whisper, “he is hurt.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. The tingle was different. A press. Smaller, lighter, but there all the same. Then, Aziraphale laughed.

“It’s not something we can fix. I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried.”

Aziraphale had tried. The first and third and sixth time he’d seen the scars, he’d tried. Crowley had insisted it was worthless. These scars were no different than the brand on his face—not going anywhere. Put there by divine power so strong and pure that not even all the angels in Heaven would take them away. Still, he tried. It always warmed Crowley, regardless, to feel Aziraphale’s power on his back in some tiny miracle. A miracle that had been strong enough to raise the dead from their beds, but not to heal one gaping scar on one demon’s back. It was sad, but Crowley never wanted more.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Aziraphale’s voice was higher now. Louder. Lighter. Happy. “I’ll tell him.”

That was when Crowley felt something on his shoulder. Aziraphale, leaning over the back of the sofa to rest the weight of his head into Crowley’s shoulder so they could be close.

“Gilgamesh wants you to know,” Aziraphale whispered, “that when he’s big, he’ll heal you.”

Crowley smiled something large and dumb. That had been the second press on his back, then. Not just something he’d imagined, but Gilgamesh’s small and unformed hand brushing on his scars like Aziraphale did. In worry, in care, and Crowley could somehow see him already. Just like Aziraphale with big eyes and curiosity out of bounds. Oh, they would be a sight together in the library, wrapped up in their books and their things.

“I feel better now, angel,” Crowley said. “Come, sit with me.”

“You should thank your son,” Aziraphale muttered into his temple, kissing him again before doing as he was asked. He waved around the sofa to come and sit nestled right up against Crowley, thighs brushing all the way to their hips. Crowley’s wing, near instinctively, came to curl around Aziraphale’s shoulder like a guard.

“Wherever are my manners?” Crowley hummed, pressing his hand to Aziraphale’s stomach. “Thank you, Gilgamesh. I’m moved by your care.”

Aziraphale laughed, “you don’t need to be so formal.”

“I haven’t even met them, yet,” Crowley argued. Which was true. Where Aziraphale could see them, Crowley couldn’t. Crowley could feel them, the energy they produced in excess, but nothing more. He didn’t know their voices, their thoughts, their looks. Not even how they felt about the world outside. All he had was the energy in the air, stiff or light depending on the mood, but it was all left over and residual. It didn’t seem quite as real, not in the way that Aziraphale walked with their voices in the back of his head like thoughts and memories and dreams.

“They do wonder what to call us,” Aziraphale said, then, with a slight flush in his face.

“Figure they can call us what they like. We picked what to call them, it seems only fair.”

“Yes, well, they want to be sure. Astraea is a bright one, you know, literally,” Aziraphale spoke back about the pictures they had. There had been two bright lights, but one had surely outshone. It must have been Astraea. “She seems to understand that this isn’t my usual form.”

“Oh, so they’re considerate,” Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. It felt _good_ to laugh, given where he’d been all morning and what he’d been through.

“Yes, dear, they’re considerate.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but when Crowley pulled him in, he didn’t resist. He fell into Crowley’s chest and let his eyes close, smiling. The chicken had surely burned by now, but none of it was too much for a miracle.

“Well, they can call me what they like. Do you hear that?” Crowley eyed squarely down. “I am your father, I guess. So that’s fine. Any variation you think suits me.”

Aziraphale smiled, and the room was warm again. “You are their father,” he said in a bit of awe, like he hadn’t really realized it until Crowley said so. Crowley didn’t comment, just pressed a kiss into Aziraphale’s hair and leaned into him.

“What about you, angel? You could be anything, I think.”

“Yes, quite. Well, rather, I have been giving this some thought.” There was lots of time to think for three months of silence and mundane. “I know I don’t have to conform to anything human, but I have rather enjoyed the idea that I am their mother.”

“Then what’s got Astraea so worried about it?”

“That I might return to my original form, you see,” Aziraphale mused. “Would I still be ‘Mother’ if I look like a man?”

“If you want to be, I don’t see why not,” Crowley shrugged. “They’re just titles, really. Could have them call you Mr. Fell if it’d make you feel better,” and there was that smirk again. Devious and wide with pointed teeth. In theory, really, because Crowley tended to keep as many pointed things about himself rounded. Like the teeth and the nails.

“Oh, please, no. That’s not even funny, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiled anyway. He certainly didn’t laugh, because it wasn’t funny, but he was helpless to smiling when there was so much mirth building up inside of him, around him. Near him.

“I think mum’s just fine then, if that’s what you like.”

“I daresay it is,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Alright,” another kiss. Crowley tended to be affectionate at the best of times, but after a nightmare it was like they were at the Ritz again, all over. “Thanks for your kind service, Mum,” Crowley finished.

“Alright, you,” Aziraphale batted at him and pushed back up to his feet. He didn’t have to think Crowley was funny, because the children did. They could both feel the flips and giggles in the air. For even if Crowley hadn’t met them, Gilgamesh and Astraea both had met him. On numerous occasions.

Even then, at that moment where Aziraphale turned to watch as Crowley slouched back into the sofa, they were with him. Aziraphale could see the energy, no bigger now than a melon, curled up around him on his shoulder, in the crook of his elbow where he’d crossed his arms. He remained without a shirt, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them. Like this, it was harder to tell them apart, but Aziraphale was learning. Gilgamesh had a soft blue glow, and Astraea was turning red quickly.

Colors were just colors, though, and Aziraphale didn’t like to think much beyond that. It led him down into dark and horrifying territories to Raguel’s words that still rang loud in his ears. That they were giving birth to a monster. Maybe not so much a monster now that there were two, but maybe they were breaking the laws that God Herself at set forth. Maybe Gilgamesh would be an angel, and Astraea would Fall before she’d even had a chance at grace. To that, Aziraphale would much prefer a monster of any legend, from any time. If he was right, and he looked at Crowley for this, it would be devastating. Crowley hated his demon nature on and off from day to day, but if he knew that it had damned his daughter before she’d even known life? Aziraphale hesitated to think farther than that. Wouldn’t think farther than that. It took him back to the unfortunate moment that Crowley had wanted holy water, and he had thought the worst of it.

Instead, Aziraphale wound back around and over to the kitchen where the chicken had most definitely burned. With a flick of his wrist, there was no smoke and no char, and all was right again for the moment. The cooking channel was playing in the background while Aziraphale cooked enough to feed a family. Crowley’s wings had tucked back away, for the time, and he was looking rather content with energy spread around him that he couldn’t see. Surely, he felt warm, though. It was the heat of the stove keeping Aziraphale warm, but he would be selfish to say that they couldn’t spend as much time with Crowley as they could.

The moment they started development, they would be confined to a once and true corporation. After that, there would be no time to laze around on Crowley’s shoulder where he couldn’t see. That had quite become Astraea’s favorite spot, and often, if Aziraphale woke in the middle of the night, that was where he’d see her sleeping. Curled up in the crook of Crowley’s neck and shoulder, a tight little ball of warmth and love. Even if Crowley couldn’t see it, Aziraphale hoped he could feel it, the love. To feel how cared for he was, and maybe it would be enough to do what Gilgamesh was so bent on. Healing him. If it were possible for them to help whatever it was Crowley went through when he thought no one was looking, Aziraphale hoped it would.

Gilgamesh, on the other hand, liked to be everywhere. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would be so far away to the windowsill, perched like he might truly have eyes to see outside. Other times, Gilgamesh would be nowhere at all, and Aziraphale would be unusually warm. And then, still, sometimes, Gilgamesh curled up on the space left between Aziraphale and Crowley when they pulled apart in the middle of the night. He really did have all the curiosity one ball of energy could muster, and Aziraphale always found it cute. Now, though, he was still right up in Crowley’s elbow. Aziraphale could almost see it, real. Crowley, sitting on the couch with the telly on, holding an infant Gilgamesh up in his arms and just. Looking at him. Crooning at him. It felt so real, a moment, Aziraphale thought that’s what he was looking at. Another moment, and he’d turned back to his cooking.

It was exactly three days later, a Saturday, when Crowley decided to spend a bit more time in the garden than he otherwise would have. The plants were still establishing themselves, which left Crowley with work and more work. Work he enjoyed, work he lost himself in, but work, nonetheless. He was always down on his hands in needs in the dirt, sneering at the plants when he had the chance. Once they’d set in better, he would start to introduce more. This would be the garden that, truly, he always wanted. Soon, there would be vines growing up the cottage walls, and he was even thinking of planting vegetables. Or strawberries, maybe, in their own little area. He would plan for that later, once he started with flowers and leafy plants. Those were his specialties, though he quite well believed he could make the whole thing his specialty if he yelled loud enough.

For now, it was quiet hisses and little things when he yanked at leaves and pulled up weeds. These plants were used to keeping themselves in line, to staying positively beautiful at all times. Even outside, there would be consequences. He’d already uprooted something and destroyed it right on the front lawn—but it had only happened once. It only needed to happen once. The coleus and the laceleaf were both still happy inside, without spots, and Crowley just wished everything could be more like them. They were so well-behaved Crowley could weep from how little care they required. Aziraphale watered them, time to time, and Crowley pruned. The garden would need work, lots of it, and Crowley would give it all the attention it needed.

Around noon, sometime after but before two, Crowley waltzed back into the house with soil covering his hands to his elbows. His shirt was ruined, and his jeans were caked. He probably should have showered, thrown his clothes in the washer and changed, but he was a demon. Human, earthly things were beneath him, and he snapped his fingers before plopping down on the sofa, clean as he was when he went out that morning. On the telly in front of him, some man was showing off proper grilling technique; beside him, Aziraphale was curled up on the sofa with the laptop in his lap. Crowley’s laptop. He had to do a double take before he leaned over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he was doing.

“I didn’t know you could use a laptop,” Crowley said. Aziraphale knocked him off with a half annoyed, half amused little grumble and smiled at him.

“I’ve been learning, I think. It’s not quite as easy as you make it seem, but I have figured out the basics.”

“Wait, how did you even get on? Its password locked.”

“I’m an angel, dear. Nothing is locked if I don’t want it to be,” and Aziraphale wore something quite like a smirk, if Crowley had ever seen one. Crowley pretended to be as offended as he could, but inevitably ended up curling against Aziraphale’s side to see what he was doing.

Crowley’s eyes widened when he really took in what Aziraphale was looking at. He wasn’t just browsing websites for the fun of it, he was _shopping_. The cart was still empty, but Crowley would recognize online clothes shopping anywhere. He was no stranger to the joys of the online-retail world, and he may have had something to do with it. Especially the advertisements, oh, humans hated the advertisements. That had been a while back, though, and Crowley didn’t do much anymore along those lines. They were _retired._ Still, he thought it made him rather qualified on the shopping front. Maybe less qualified was what Aziraphale was looking at.

“Baby clothes,” Crowley said dumbly. Aziraphale had just clicked on a small three-piece suit, and Crowley didn’t have it in him to tell Aziraphale that that was _right_ out. He must have known regardless, because they looked at it for all of three seconds.

“They do not seem to like anything that I do,” Aziraphale sighed. He leaned onto the arm of the sofa, using one hand to track the mouse over something different.

“Reasonably, they’ll be infants. Dress them however you like.”

The air soured, but Crowley couldn’t help but snicker. This little thing they did wouldn’t last forever, and they all knew it. Gilgamesh and Astraea would need _bodies_ soon, and that meant the energy would curl up somewhere else. Once that happened, no more warm air, and no more hypothetical frowning when Aziraphale clicked on a fine little dress with a bow on the back.

“What do they like, then?”

“Well, I left this one open. I think it was something you were looking at earlier. Months ago, really, but,” Aziraphale cut off when he clicked over to a new tab. It was indeed something Crowley had been looking at earlier, the same little onesie covered in ducks. Aziraphale took one glance to gauge Crowley’s reaction before adding two of them to the cart, smallest size.

“Oh, taking pity on us?” Crowley asked.

“For a bit. They’ll grow out of it,” like Aziraphale would win this.

“Come on, angel, they’ll be _kids_. You gotta let them dress like kids for a bit. Leave the frilly stuff to when they’re older. Kids wear diapers and shit.”

“Take care of many kids, have you?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“No, but I know how to use a laptop too, you know. Lots of parenting forums out there. Biggest advice I see is to not buy expensive clothes, they grow out of it so fast. And our children will not be entirely normal, so. Who knows how fast they will grow?”

“I suppose you’re right, but couldn’t we always just miracle the clothes larger?”

“And that’s why it doesn’t matter what size you get that onesie in.” Crowley sat up straight and clapped once, for himself, and laughed.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but continued to look through the website. Crowley had certainly won that, but realistically, the argument could be used both ways. They compromised, eventually, and Aziraphale bought two tiny suits and two tiny dresses. Nothing more, and he had approval for both. He scrolled a while longer, looking at tiny shoes and socks that surely were harder to make than they were worth; Crowley was slouching, halfway down the couch with his feet on the coffee table. The telly was apparently incredibly interesting, and Crowley hadn’t blinked once.

That was the exact moment where Aziraphale realized that they didn’t much do anything, anymore. They hadn’t even had the twins yet, and still, they were devoting all of their time to them. Which wasn’t entire a bad thing, but they hadn’t even gone for take-out since this happened. Not that Aziraphale particularly wanted to go anywhere, because he was hot and tired _constantly_ , but. Maybe Crowley did. Crowley didn’t deal so well with boredom and sitting around all day certainly wasn’t doing nice things for him. Whatever it was he mulled about when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking; Aziraphale was looking. Watching the curve of his lips.

“Should you like to go somewhere?” Aziraphale asked. “Surely, we might find better fun in baby shopping at a real store?” he closed the laptop to emphasize his commitment.

“Sure. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt. There’s a few shops in town we could visit.” Crowley sat up immediately, rubbing the back of his head as he did. “You sure you’d like to go? You shouldn’t over-exert yourself.”

“Yes, Crowley, I’d like to leave the house for the first time in months.”

That made the point well enough, and Crowley didn’t argue further. They could both use some time away from the house, even if the only thing that would truly change is the scenery. They’d still be together, they’d still be a bit uncomfortably warm about it, but they would be in a store doing something they’d clearly been looking forward to it. Baby things. Somewhere along the line, they’d convinced themselves that they were having normal looking babies, all correct and present for what it was worth. Aziraphale had more reason than any to _claim_ that they were, with Gilgamesh and Astraea whispering in his ear at all hours of the day. Crowley still feared they were better for telling than to show, but he hadn’t a clue of evidence to support that. Aziraphale would have _normal_ children, everything would be fine, and Crowley would see those duck onesies on the doorstep within the week. Modern, clever technology, and all.

Given the circumstances, Crowley tended to drive slower now. Even if the roads were a bit wider, less congested, he drove slower. Aziraphale would have commented on it if he hadn’t preferred it this way before, entirely, so he only ever settled nicely in the passenger seat to watch the road drift by. South Downs was truly beautiful, and Aziraphale was ever glad this is where Crowley had picked to move them. If they had had more time, maybe they could have gone farther, but this was for the best. It meant they were still hidden and not quite as uprooted as they had once been. The drive to Tadfield would be longer, but it would be worth it. For these views alone.

The town was quaint, too, with just enough buzz that it reminded Aziraphale of a smaller Soho. Not quite a smaller London, but a smaller slice of the world he’d always known. And the shop was, well. Aziraphale beamed when Crowley parked—legally—and they went inside. It was a shop dedicated to all things infant to toddler, all things that they might find themselves in need of. Some of it they wouldn’t need for a long time; some of it they wouldn’t need _at all_ , but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from poking about.

Crowley thought pacifiers were a ridiculous idea at the best of times, but Aziraphale found one with lady bugs on it that he absolutely would not be told no to. It went in the cart, regardless. For it, Crowley was allowed his own peculiarities when he came across a pair of round, baby sunglasses. Aziraphale scowled at them, but really, he wasn’t about to say anything about it. They went in the cart, too, and Crowley was already dreaming of which baby he’d put those on. The air around them was pleasant, at best, and it positively beamed when they passed through the toys.

So, toys. Aziraphale wanted to stick to soft things, for now, because they would have to grow into real toys. Crowley wasn’t so much in agreement, but he could always whip up some miracles later, if he desired. They passed by those small cars that toddlers could drive. He was imagining a smaller Bentley, that one of the kids would drive like him, too. They’d be no less immortal than he or Aziraphale, so really, it didn’t matter. That would be something Aziraphale would frown about, so even when the air just seemed to trill, Crowley kept his mouth shut.

They did decide on soft toys, though. Stuffed animals. A bear with button eyes and a cat with pointed ears were both put into the cart, lest there be a fit. Crowley was already a bit uncomfortable in the heat; they didn’t mean to need to make it worse. Not that it would, not with what they were looking at. The second Aziraphale saw the _clothes_ , that’s where he wanted to go. Everything was so tiny, so cute—Crowley hear had to grab his hand to prevent him from picking up _shoes_. That was where Crowley would draw the line. Baby shoes were cute, sure, but they were expensive for how often they would get worn. At least, that’s what the parenting forums had said.

“Why ever not, Crowley?” Aziraphale had the audacity to pull out those eyes he was so good at, big and pouting.

“Babies need space,” Crowley tried. “To like, I don’t know. Wiggle the toes. Get flexible.”

“I suppose—oh but look how cute they are.” Aziraphale pulled a very small pair of sneakers off the wall for Crowley to look at. Crowley, in turn, crinkled his nose and put them back.

“Yes, they’re very cute. They won’t be worn.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley hadn’t _intended_ to sour anything, so he took Aziraphale by the shoulders and turned him ever slightly.

“These,” Crowley said, “are much better.”

“They’re socks, dear.”

“Yes, and look,” Crowley pulled a pair off the shelf that was decorated in little stars and moons. “Does this not look like something Astraea would enjoy? Much better than shoes, and it’s still cute. Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale perked up immediately. Not only did he throw those socks in the cart, but he took time picking out a few more pairs. Eleven more, to be exact; six for each of them, he said. Crowley added two more, for a whole week of socks. Aziraphale was positively giddy at that point, and he finally turned away to look at actual clothing.

Neither of them was much a fan of the blue and pink distinction, the one thing they’d agreed on currently. Even if the dresses were cute, and the tiny polo shirts were just about everything Aziraphale could have dreamed about, they decided it wasn’t worth it. They were babies, supernatural babies, and had no real reason to be bound by such silly things. There was a small section that blended everything together into greens, yellows, and purples. Onesies done up in the cutest little designs or jackets. Crowley may have wanted to get a small leather jacket, but that went in the same line as shoes. Too expensive for how often it would get worn. So, it went ignored. They picked up comfortable things, cute things, and certainly something that said, ‘my dad is the best’. Though, Aziraphale had sneaked that one in.

They looked at a double stroller, then. It was a nice deep red color with comfortable looking seats, and they hadn’t spent a second discussing it before Aziraphale decided they would need a second cart. Especially because the idea of two strollers _also_ delighted him, and Crowley couldn’t deny that. Beside the strollers, after they had picked out three of them, were car seats. Aziraphale hadn’t paid a mind to them, but Crowley stopped to look. There wasn’t much reason for them, really. The Bentley probably didn’t have the proper things to attach them, but that was easy enough to fix. Everywhere they might take the kids was within walking distance, and Crowley was quite sure that Aziraphale would let neither Gilgamesh nor Astraea anywhere near the Bentley until they were at least three hundred. But.

“Did you find something you liked?” Aziraphale had returned. “That one has that same star pattern—”

“Really, angel?” Crowley looked a bit shocked, his glasses down on the end of his nose now.

“Of course. I mean, I’m a bit nervous. But I wouldn’t keep them from you like that. As strange as it sounds, I do believe the Bentley is a part of the family.” Aziraphale laughed, then, gently. “That did sound funny.”

And it did. Crowley even laughed too, a short stunted little thing that showed he was amused but still stunned to silence.

“Besides,” Aziraphale straightened. “I’ve noticed lately you’ve seemed a little down. I noticed before, too, at the flat. I’ve just never known what to say. I think if this would make you feel a bit better, I want you to do it.”

“Oh, Aziraphale, you don’t—”

“No, we should. Get one of those ones that’s made to grow with them, you know.” Aziraphale looked through them briefly before he spotted what he meant for. A car seat that would turn into a booster seat as the child got bigger; even better, it matched the same red design of the strollers they’d gotten. “This one,” Aziraphale pointed. “I would like this one.”

Crowley hesitated just a moment longer, but he eventually picked up two of them. Aziraphale just had that way, and he was right; it did make him feel a bit better. Even if it was for something as strange as admitting that the Bentley was a part of the family; it had surely been a part of their adventure. It would be quite strange not to share it with Gilgamesh and Astraea, who were shaping up to be part two. Crowley wouldn’t dream of letting harm come to them.

Their bill topped out a number Crowley didn’t want to see, and the second they were out of sight, everything was sent right to the cottage. The Bentley had _no_ room for any of it, and Crowley was feeling like stopping for lunch might be the perfect wrap up to their adventure. Their three-hour adventure. Aziraphale would never say no to food, though, and Crowley was feeling something sweet for once. It wasn’t often that he wanted any type of food at all, but a milkshake sounded like the greatest thing he could have ever thought to invent; he hadn’t even helped with that one. A milkshake, the thought of it.

They ended up at something fast and greasy. Aziraphale got an entire meal for himself, plus the milkshake. Crowley got the milkshake. They sat in the Bentley, in the parking lot, to eat. While the rule tended to be that the Bentley was food free, drink free, and living free—Crowley made an exception. Something was still sitting with him, and it was something that Aziraphale had noticed. He’d said he’d noticed, as far back as the flat, and Crowley felt rather an obvious fool for it. Still. It meant he couldn’t deny.

“Do you really think that I look down?” Crowley asked, then hid his question immediately under the slurp of his shake. Aziraphale had to swallow a bite of fries before he nodded.

“I do. You have for some time—I just wish I knew what to say about it.”

“Certainly means I’m not hiding it very well.”

“Oh. Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t hide it at all. Not from me, at least.” Aziraphale was looking at him with big, wide eyes. There was a wash over them in glistening moistness like he might _cry_. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to pick up my problems.”

“What _are_ your problems? I don’t even know what they are, Crowley. I know it’s—well. We’ve never been very good at talking, have we?” Aziraphale chuckled lightly to himself. It had taken them ages to even admit that they cared about each other, and an age more for care to turn to love. They were getting better, Aziraphale thought, given the difference in time. Especially given how quickly they’d decided for children. Still. This was heavy. This was important. Neither of them knew what to do.

“It’s a lack of purpose, I suppose,” Crowley said all at once. In the silence, it was deafening. “You had the shop, but after Armageddon? I had nothing. I have you, but, well,” Crowley shrugged and smiled. “I can’t spend all my time with you. I think you would quite wish me gone, for that.”

“I would never wish you away, no. Crowley—” Aziraphale sighed. “I had no idea.”

“Not much to really do about it, I suppose. I have the garden, but I can only waste so much time there, too. I’m just hoping that sooner or later, I’ll have something new to worry about.”

Aziraphale smiled and took another fry into his mouth. Surely, Gilgamesh and Astraea would be enough for the both of them to worry about; too much, even, if they were anything at all like Raguel had threatened. It warmed Aziraphale to hear just where Crowley was looking for purpose—in him, in their children who hadn’t even a face or an age, or anything. There was no way it would be a complete fix; Aziraphale wasn’t so naive to think that life worked so simply. If Crowley couldn’t just miracle away his hurt, then surely children weren’t going to fix it either. They may even make it worse, but it was _purpose_ that Crowley wanted. If he wanted to find that with them, then that would be just fine.

They finished their meals, respectfully, before Crowley started the Bentley back up. On the drive back, Aziraphale informed him quite cheekily that it appeared that Gilgamesh was the one with a sweet tooth, and it apparently was strong enough to give Crowley one too. Pointedly left out was Aziraphale’s own sweet tooth, but he seemed to always have one. Had back in London, anyway, and that just had to be where Gilgamesh had learned it. It seemed rather pointed that Gilgamesh and Astraea were not inheriting but taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏  
>   
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	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AW YEAH CHAPTER. I don't really have much to say about this other than I am exhausted. Working on like 29489 fics at a time is ridiculous of me to do, but Im going to keep doing it. No one can stop me.
> 
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Six months and nothing. Aziraphale looked exactly the same, ate exactly the same, cried exactly the same when they watched a sad movie on Saturday night. He still hadn’t told Crowley about those nights when they sat together with the lights off, where he could look over and see a bright little red light curled up on his shoulder. Gilgamesh was getting bluer and had found a new place right at Aziraphale’s hip where he liked to sit. He turned out to be more agreeable about moving, where Astraea would sit on Crowley’s shoulder should the world fall.

There were days, though, when neither of the little balls of light were around. Those were the days Aziraphale felt sluggish and tired; he would eat an extra meal late at night, and sometimes, he would fall asleep on the couch. He would never wake up on the couch. It was always beside Crowley in their plush, vast bed. Sometimes Crowley would be looking at him, other times, Crowley would be asleep. It never ceased to leave Aziraphale in _awe_ about it. It might have even moved him, once or twice, to snuggle in closer and go back to sleep. Scarcely, those days, was there any better place to be than right up in the crook of Crowley’s neck, however sharp his collar bone might have been.

Before, when they slept in the same bed, they would keep to their own sides by the time the morning arrived over the horizon. During the night, they would roll apart. Aziraphale hadn’t let that happen since, and when he fell asleep against Crowley, he stayed there. When morning came, there was a lingering warmth so hot that it was near excessive, but the children always disappeared when came time to roll out of bed. Just like everything else in their lives, it was boiling down into a routine. A comfortable, mundane, and ever-fulfilling routine—for both of them, which made Aziraphale quite glad. Even if Crowley was ever too busy catering every whim and need Aziraphale had, it was still something more than he’d been doing before. They were even doing it together, often enough, especially when Crowley leaned over the couch to pluck food off Aziraphale’s plate. That was one of Aziraphale’s favorite moments.

Everything else was less than loved, six months and counting. Aziraphale was tired. He thought back to the moment, often, when he had first seen Gilgamesh and Astraea stand before him, talk in that horrible, echoing unison as sentences ran into new thoughts, new ideas. They’d told him this would happen. They’d warned him., even apologized to him. And when he laid on the couch like this, with his feet propped up on a pillow, and his hair all pulled back into a braid, he watched them dance. They flew around each other in a great bit of a flash, all purple blurred together, a little circle just above Aziraphale’s hands. They were smaller than usual, and he was warmer all the same. Just around them, right up in the junction where Aziraphale’s ear met his skull, he could hear something gentle.

Their sound was something like a song, but it was hollow and mournful. Aziraphale didn’t much like the way it made his stomach drop, but he knew what it meant. In the tune of the song was a gentle goodbye, as gentle as they could make it. They weren’t _leaving_ , but they would be gone for a time. They wouldn’t explain, and they figured better that they didn’t need to. They couldn’t go anywhere, and Aziraphale knew that. They were tied to him; their energy came from him; they were just about to use the energy for something _different_.

“Six months,” he said, voice a bit raw. The rushing circle of purple came closer to his face, still hovering just above his hand as he moved. “Six months for this.”

The song sounded sorry.

Aziraphale smiled, “no, no, don’t apologize. Take as long as you need.” The purple broke all at once as red shot off behind the couch—

“Who are you talking to, angel?” Crowley asked. When Aziraphale shifted up to look, Crowley was standing at the break in the hallway with his glasses pressed close to his face and a bag in his hands. It was later than usual, but that didn’t mean Crowley wasn’t about to spend half the day in the garden. It was looking something of a beauty, lately.

Just a week ago, they had gone into town with one thing in mind: to buy new plants, seeds, and tools so Crowley could work on expanding the garden. He’d built up a separate gardening track where he was hoping to try his hand at herbs and vegetables, while the original one would be purely for aesthetic. And he’d had a lot of ideas about what he wanted to see growing in their front lawn. He wanted something colorful, but more than that, he wanted things that would regrow on their own to keep it full. There would be spaces in between, and he’d had it all quite mapped out on his laptop, where he would plant perennials. They would need to be replanted every year, and if he wanted enough years, he was hoping that he’d have some little help.

Neither one of the children had shown any interest in it so far, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have ever said that. Not because he was afraid of hurting Crowley’s feelings, but because they simply didn’t _know_. Aziraphale didn’t follow him out to the garden to watch. There had been one occasion, but Aziraphale had sat beneath their brand-new awning with warm tea and a book. It was the only time he’d ever done it. As it had slipped back into spring and into summer, it had been harder for Aziraphale to stay outside; Crowley certainly didn’t mind to work alone, either.

“Talking to the children,” Aziraphale replied. “I heard it’s good to talk to them before they’re born.”

“Well,” Crowley’s nose scrunched up. He’d heard that too, of course, though it was usually done with more evidence that children _existed_. He still hadn’t a single mind for the energy Aziraphale could see, even as it swirled around his face in trilling excitement to be noticed.

“Are you going out to the garden?”

“Yeah. Figured I could make lunch or something when I came back, if you like. If you’re not hungry—”

“You’ll be gone for hours,” Aziraphale laughed. “I will certainly be hungry.”

After a long minute of buzzing and crying, Astraea eventually returned to the little purple spin. Aziraphale smiled at her with yet another failed attempt under her belt. If she could only wait to _exist_ in a true, corporal form, Crowley would see her then.

“Feel free to snack, of course,” Crowley offered. “Picked up one of those melons you like yesterday.”

“Yes, dear, I was there.”

“Right—right. Well, I’ll be back. If you need me, I’ll just be, you know. Right outside,” Crowley sent him a strangely strained smile, to which Aziraphale waved him off. Strangely strained, as it were, his smile had only the best of intentions. Even if it resulted in his hovering, Crowley was doing his best to anticipate things Aziraphale would need. It kept Aziraphale resting.

Outside, Crowley sat down on the steps with his bag beside him. Once he had gloves on, he looked to the side. The plant garden, decorative and thriving, was on one side. The food garden, on the opposite, probably needed some more dedication attention. Dedicated attention meant time, longer than the plant garden would take. With any luck, anyway. He started there, with the plants. He would water them, prune, weed. Anything he needed to do to keep them in shape. It was routine, at this point. Even as the garden got bigger, it was the same routine. Crowley _enjoyed_ this routine, he did. He liked the calm of it, the ease of kneeling in the grass and getting his hands dirty. It was an entirely new experience he never got to have much of in the flat, save for an excessive amount of newspaper. Maybe he didn’t need to be out here every day, but he wanted to be.

He did not want to see leaf spots, aphids, any manner of pests, or browning. His rules had grown since moving to the outdoors, but they were aware of that, the plants. They knew the expectations would rise, and with Crowley’s stress level, they rose further. Crowley was nothing short of stressed, though it had been some sort of baseline for him since the Anti-Christ had been placed in his hand. The basket had been, anyway; Crowley had never _held_ the Anti-Christ. He’d never held a baby at all. He’d held a couple of toddlers back in Mesopotamia, but that was the extent of his childcare knowledge. Books and forums were nice enough, but that didn’t _mean_ Crowley understood any of it.

One thing he was certain of: children would be nothing like plants. Even that, he wasn’t quite as certain of as he wanted to be. Leaf spots would be bruises, surely. Children could fall and hurt themselves, maybe. Maybe his wouldn’t. They were supernatural children—there wasn’t even supposed to be two of them, as far as he could figure. Would they be able to get sick? Would they even be children at all? Crowley was _breathing_ with the uncertainty of it. Blinking, ever nervous. That was when he saw the absolute worst thing he could have seen at any moment. He even dropped the hose before he’d ever really even picked it up.

It wasn’t just a leaf spot. He could _deal_ with leaf spots, if pressed. It was harder to uproot the plants out of the ground to dispose of them, but he could shout, he could mangle, he could _cut._ He hadn’t had a situation yet where it was bad enough, he _wanted_ to uproot an entire plant. They were well behaved. They were more beautiful than they’d been in his flat. Not so much the prettiest plants in all of London, but of England. But this wasn’t a leaf spot. It wasn’t a brown little halo on a leaf, truly, easily removed.

This was blight. Crowley recognized it from when he used to read _books_ on the matter, back in the 50s. He’d read about one before he decided he didn’t _read_ any more than that, and it had led him to this. He recognized the blight, and it was a _horrible_ thing. To have popped up overnight maybe wasn’t so ridiculous, but it was there. Not on one of the newer plants, either, no. On his first plant. One that he had brought directly from London to plant in this garden as an _example_ to what the other plants could be. And it had contracted _blight_.

“What in _Heaven_ _’s_ name,” Crowley started, “am I looking at right now? I say no leaf spots, so you contract blight? Is _that_ what I’m looking at?!”

Blight. He was looking at _blight_. His first plant had gone and contracted a disease. He wasn’t just mad, no. That would have been too _easy_. He was upset—he was furious, he was so beyond himself with emotion that he didn’t know what else to do but shout. He screamed, he kicked, he might have even cried, if he’d a mind to do so. It was his first plant. The very first one he’d ever gotten, back when he thought the idea of growing things was quaint and adorable. Something that Aziraphale would love to know that he did. It grew into more than a hobby, and after Armageddon, it was his _life_. It had all started with this plant, and he knew it by the slight bend in its stem. He’d forgiven that because it had been his fault. But blight? He didn’t cause blight. He didn’t come out in the sore hours of the morning to give his plants _blight._

This was ridiculous. It wasn’t so much the disease; it was the betrayal. And he screamed for it, Crowley shouted. He’d taken care of this thing for years, _years_ , it had a perfect place in his flat. There was sun, always enough water, and always a new pot when it needed one. He wasn’t particularly nice, but it was choice! If the plants _wanted_ to contract things or grow poorly, then Crowley would react respectively. All the plants had to do was grow properly, without spots or blight, and Crowley would be the kindest man around. As long as they didn’t _fuck up._

But they had. His first plant, his _favorite_ plant, had gone and done this. There was nothing in Heaven or Hell that could keep him from this anger. He was _screaming_ now and bless that they didn’t have neighbors. He couldn’t even stop himself when he grabbed the plant—he wouldn’t uproot it, that wasn’t the intention. But he ripped at the leaves, the stem, until he’d pulled an entire stalk away from the plant and thrown it on the ground. Then another—another, until—

“Crowley! What are you—what on earth you are doing!?” Aziraphale. From the porch. Where he was looking on at the mess Crowley had made of leaf and dirt all out on the lawn. Crowley, himself, just fell back into the grass to sit in it.

“It had blight, angel! I couldn’t—I won’t stand for it, I won’t—”

“Blight?” Aziraphale didn’t sound concern, he sounded _angry._ “You start throwing a complete fit in the front yard for _blight?!_ Surely, you know how easy it is to fix this! Crowley, what have you done?” Aziraphale was stepping down to the path, into the grass, but he didn’t approach.

“I did what had to be done, angel,” Crowley sneered back. “If it thinks that it can just do something like that—I won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for leaf spots; I won’t stand for _any_ fuck ups—”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not. I’m not having this conversation out here,” Aziraphale had already back-stepped onto the porch. “You _ruined_ the garden, that’s what you did.”

Crowley pulled himself out of the grass and followed Aziraphale inside in nothing less than an angry stomp. Quite like he was looking for a fight, and he certainly was when he couldn’t even be bothered to close the door. He wouldn’t _stand_ for that. His plant had had audacity enough to betray him like that, he didn’t need Aziraphale turning something harsh against him either. Aziraphale was supposed to support him, just the way he’d spent six entire months catering to every need and whim he had. And for what? To get yelled at for giving his plants mercy? Back at the flat, he would have thrown the plant down the garbage disposal and been done with it. Maybe into the dumpster, given the size, but the sentiment would remain.

“I didn’t _ruin_ anything that plant didn’t ruin already. I won’t have _blight_ in my garden. It’s unthinkable; it’s out of the question!” Crowley shouted at him.

“It’s a plant, Crowley!”

“It’s _my_ plant, and it knows better! Back at the flat, I would have destroyed it. It should be happy that I’ve only maimed it for its mistake.”

“One mistake? Is that all it takes, Crowley?” Aziraphale was looking at him now, and it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something so much worse.

Disappointment.

“You have that fancy computer, just look something up! Blight’s curable; you don’t even have to use chemicals, Crowley, if you don’t want to. Why would you jump straight to _that?_ It was—it was _monstrous_ —” Aziraphale wrung his hands together out in front of him.

“Monstrous,” Crowley repeated, life drained from his face.

“Is that really all it takes? One mistake, and they’re nothing? I can’t—I can’t _deal_ with that, Crowley. The idea. The idea of it—”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Crowley took one step closer, and Aziraphale took two steps back.

“With your plants, Crowley! You do that to them; how can I know you won’t do it elsewhere?!”

“What,” Crowley punctuated it this time with a click of his teeth, “are you talking about?”

“The _children_ , Crowley! You rip your _first_ plant,” because Aziraphale knew just as well, “to shreds for something so stupid! How can I—how can I know you won’t do something to them?”

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. Whatever life he’d retained in the light of his eyes died immediately, the second Aziraphale breathed out the last of his sentence and took one more step away. One more step from _a demon._ For all of a minute, they stood there in silence while Crowley tried to wrap his mind around just what had happened, what had led up to this. Was it the stress? The exhaustion? Had something happened he didn’t know about? Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe Aziraphale was just coming to his senses, realizing just what he’d agreed to.

“Why would I—why would I hurt our kids?” but Crowley knew better than to take another step. As much as he wanted, _needed,_ to have Aziraphale in his arms in that moment, it would have spelled disaster. Aziraphale knew how to protect himself. What Crowley couldn’t see was the mass of energy spinning around Aziraphale, crowding him. Angry, upset. Ready to _change._

“You’re a demon!” Aziraphale shouted. He would never be able to take that back, not the way that it _stabbed_ and cut deep. Ripped whatever was left of Crowley right from his chest, and Crowley really did feel like he might fall over at any moment. “It’s what you do! Look how you treat your plants! They’re alive, helpless, and you—”

“Say it,” Crowley hissed.

“You tried to kill it,” Aziraphale’s words were a breath.

Crowley took in a sharp breath.

“I can’t stand the idea that you’d hurt them—that you’d hurt my children,” Aziraphale _whispered._ He stood very pointedly, there, with his arms wrapped around his midsection. The energy he’d seen around him that left his eyes so unfocused and dazed, it was gone. Their time was _done._ Gilgamesh and Astraea—they’d gathered everything they wanted. Everything they needed. And the last thing they’d heard was Aziraphale call Crowley a _demon_. That he would _hurt_ them. Aziraphale could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and Crowley would never know what for.

“Your children, then.” Only, Crowley was oddly calm. He was just standing there, watching as Aziraphale curled in on himself and slid down the wall, to the floor. He hadn’t anything more to say about the subject, either. He didn’t even step forward in the way Aziraphale hoped that he might. Hoped that he might have seen past all the words, because that’s what they were: _words_. But he didn’t. Crowley left his fists to hang at his sides and stepped off into the hallway.

It took him all of three steps before he felt the sudden chill in the house. The chill that came straight from the thermostat, where they’d had it so low to combat the warmth of that energy—Crowley’s heart sank. He couldn’t _feel_ them anymore, and maybe that was for the best. At the very least, it meant that they believed Aziraphale; maybe even that Aziraphale believed himself. Crowley believed him. He was a demon. Demons weren’t built for love, for care, for all of those good and lovely things God had made as some sick apology for the dread that would follow. The dread was for the demons, for Crowley. If he wasn’t even supposed to have love, then what a world did he think he lived in that he could have children?

He closed the door to the bedroom and locked it, without a second thought. Out, downstairs, the door was still open, and his tools were still scattered out on the porch. The garden would have no work done today, and that was perfectly fine with Crowley. He was a demon—he shouldn’t _care_ about anything. Not flowers, not Aziraphale, and most certainly not himself. He could rot in this bedroom for the rest of forever and not mind one bit about, even if there came knocks. And there never did.

Aziraphale, back in the living room, hadn’t had the strength to pull himself back to his feet. Not for the minutes that passed and turned quite well into an hour. In all the time, he did not hear one movement from above, from Crowley. Aziraphale might have had time to think about the worst possible thing, but he wouldn’t let himself do that. He couldn’t—it wasn’t good for him, for _them_. Things were turning cold fast, and he needed to do something about it before the cold turned lonely, and he forgot what they were here for in the first place.

First, the thermostat. He turned it up to a temperature he knew would make Crowley comfortable, just slightly cooler for the air outside. And then, he went to the door. If he’d been in a different mood, if he’d been _angrier_ , he would have made Crowley clean up his own mistakes, his own mess. But he didn’t. He worked his own miracle in the garden to fix the plant and prayed Crowley would smile the day he found it. No blight included, and the plant apologized in its own way. Another miracle and the hose was put back on its stand, the tools were back in the bag; Aziraphale took the bag back inside, closed the door, and breathed like nothing at all had happened.

When he went upstairs, he stopped at the door to the bedroom. He might have knocked, had he been in a different mood. If he’d been closer to numb and less to crying. Instead, he set the bag of gardening things right outside and did not knock. He didn’t know what to say, if there was _anything_ to say. Was there a way to take back what he’d said? And how horrible it sounded, now, that he recalled it. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have said a thing, not once—he _knew_ how Crowley treated the plants. It was something they just didn’t talk about. Aziraphale didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to. They weren’t _his_ plants.

Crowley payed less attention to the ones he’d left inside, the laceleaf and the coleus. They were well enough behaved, he’d said, that he didn’t need to coddle and shout at them. So, Aziraphale did it instead. He watered them and whispered sweet little things into their leaves like they deserved. The first week had been confusing, but after that. Well, they flourished. In much the same way the ones outside did, but Aziraphale didn’t have to _shout_ to make it happen. And he wished Crowley understood that. He wished Crowley understood more than he did, than he let on that he did. It always came right back around. Crowley was a demon, and he would never be able to change that. Aziraphale shouldn’t resent it, either.

He didn’t. Aziraphale didn’t resent Crowley. That would be a cruel and horrid thing to do to anyone, let alone someone he’d quite promised to share the rest of his life with. In word alone, no doubt, but a promise, nonetheless. It would be no different than if Crowley had resented him for nothing more than being an angel. Maybe he did, once, resent him for being what he was. Because Crowley had Fallen, and Aziraphale hadn’t. That was a long time ago, and it wasn’t fair of Aziraphale to try and wrench it back from some unholy place. He didn’t resent Crowley. He _loved_ Crowley, demon-natured shouting and all. He’d just. Slipped a bit. The world had blurred all colors of red, blue, and purple to throw him for a loop.

Aziraphale had never been one to blame his actions on external things, and he didn’t want to start now. There was still room to give himself some credit; he was tired. He was so tired that, when he made his way to the couch, he’d nearly missed it in his hurry to lie down. Gilgamesh and Astraea—their energy, it was relentless. It sapped him the moment they’d told him what they intended to do. Aziraphale just hadn’t been himself, not since the morning. Not since he’d seen them turn purple together. He still had to take responsibility for himself. He’d said those things. He’d called Crowley a demon, accused him of something he would never.

In all the years he’d known Crowley, he’d never once seen him raise a hand to anyone, let alone a child. It wasn’t in his nature to do harm for harm’s sake, demon or not. He’d always been such a valiant protector of _choice_ , and his _choice_ was not to hurt people if he couldn’t help it. It was only natural that he would extend that same courtesy to his own children. Natural and expected. They were his children, too. Oh, he’d been so excited when Aziraphale had asked, he remembered. He could see Crowley’s face in his memory, all the subtle little creases, the light in his eyes. He’d nearly lost control of himself in that moment, just being _asked_. Crowley had kept him in bed for _hours_ , three days, longer than any human would have been able to. Aziraphale remembered all of it.

Surely, that sort of care, that consideration, that endearment, would last beyond that stage. It would. Crowley still looked at him with all the stars in his eyes that he could muster, and the gentle way he would touch. Crowley _cared_ so much, and Aziraphale had just. Ruined it in its entirety. He hadn’t even stopped after the first blow; he’d _seen_ how Crowley’s face had died right in front of him, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d been so cruel; crueler than Crowley had ever been to him. Not in all the years they’d known each other had Crowley ever been so cruel to him. Even at the greatest threats to run away and not so much as think of him, Crowley had come back.

When Aziraphale woke up in the morning, he was still lying on the couch. There was no sound from the kitchen at the idea of a breakfast, lunch—whatever time it was. Aziraphale didn’t know. All he knew was that he was tired, and that it was dark outside, of what he could see through the windows. At some point, the television had turned off during his sleep, which left the house in an eerie sort of silence. The kind where Aziraphale was afraid to move, even breathe too loud. He hoped that if he stayed quiet enough, he could hear Crowley through the settling of the house. But there was nothing. Nothing but a lingering sort of chill that had buried down in the ache of his bones.

According to the clock on the stove, it was just after three in the morning. Aziraphale would have been a fool to think Crowley awake so early, so he tried to push the idea out of his mind. The idea of anything that Crowley had done since he’d seen him, last, _hours_ ago. Aziraphale had spent most of the day asleep, apparently, which meant that even if Crowley had come down from the room—he hadn’t woken him. He hadn’t carried him to bed as he did before. It left a subtle sort of hole, somewhere, and Aziraphale rather thought to fill it with breakfast. Never the same, breakfast, when he made it for himself. Since they’d started to live together, it just seemed a thing that Crowley did. Even if they ate dinner apart, even if Crowley didn’t eat a thing all day, breakfast seemed a sacred time.

Aziraphale cooked himself something to eat before settling back on the couch, alone, to eat it. If only he’d actually wanted to eat. He was hungry, he could _feel_ that in the incessant pounding in his stomach. The rest of him though, where it counted, had no interest in the food. For their sake, though, the children, he pressed himself through it. The whole thing, the entire plate. There was no comforting tug of warmth around, no quiet comment that it was good of him to do that. Crowley would have thought so. Crowley, if he didn’t regret their whole arrangement, would have thought Aziraphale rather wonderful for eating something in his state. He didn’t _want_ to eat. But the energy wasn’t for him, so he managed. For their sake, really, the children.

Heavens, he already missed them. He missed their little light, the way they made him feel. The _warmth._ They weren’t gone, Gilgamesh and Astraea. Aziraphale knew that. They weren’t gone, but they were away. Every part of his being wanted to tell Crowley. They’d waited six months for something, anything, to happen. And it just. Happened at the worst time imaginable. Aziraphale just hoped he hadn’t ruined their perception, that Gilgamesh and Astraea would still think exactly the same of Crowley as they had. Even for Aziraphale’s horrid comments, and even for the way they hadn’t so much spoken to each other in some odd eighteen hours.

Had Crowley even slept?

Aziraphale set his plate and fork on the coffee table before daring towards the stairs. To climb them was a task worse than anything Aziraphale had faced, and not just for what lay at the top of them. For the _effort_ , heavens, the effort. His entire body ached with it, the effort. He quite feared he wouldn’t be able to make it back down them, and it made the journey all the more important. If he was to be stuck at the top of the stairs for the rest of the night, then he would need to make up with Crowley. He had to apologize—the words flew around his head in agony at the thought of what he could say. Were there even words? There had to be. This wasn’t something they should kiss over and call it a day. That wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t do the issue justice: how badly Aziraphale knew he’d hurt Crowley.

He should have just said nothing. No sense in playing out the scenarios, not anymore. Not three inches from the bedroom door, which was still tightly closed. The garden bag was gone, at least, which spelled that Crowley _was alive_. If nothing else, he was alive in there. Just. Well, probably not feeling so well. Aziraphale gulped when he raised his fist to knock, in gentle wraps along the door’s wood. Almost too gentle to hear, and he thought they might have been when there came no answer. He knocked harder, a second time, and a third. No answer.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called. Nothing.

Aziraphale’s forehead hit the door when he sighed. His fourth knock, he supposed, funny as it were. If they were both in better moods, then maybe one of them would have laughed. As it were, Aziraphale could barely remember the sound—always with the dramatics, him, and he scolded himself to knock again. Yet, no response would come. Nothing but the silence between him and the door, and whatever it would be on the other side of the door. If anything at all. Was Crowley asleep?

Crowley was sitting on the edge of the bed, back towards the door, leaned over his knees with a hunched back. His shoulders had curled up to his jaw, and everything else fell around in place. Since he’d found the garden bag, he hadn’t moved from that spot. It wasn’t even _about_ the garden, which surely needed his attention more than anything, now. It was just about everything else. Everything Aziraphale had said and done, Crowley rather believed he was correct. There was nothing else for him to believe about it, so he hadn’t. He just. Sat there in silence, listening to the quiet sets of knocking as they happened. The shuddered call of his name.

Even then, Aziraphale was _trying_. Crowley was doing nothing. He hadn’t even bothered to turn the lights on, as if he’d ever really needed them. Just another reminder of how inhuman he was, the way his eyes would light the dark for him in their serpentine way. Disgusting, really. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into his hands, listening.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled by the door. “If you can hear me, please just. Listen to me, please.”

Crowley was listening to the silence Aziraphale left just to give him a moment. Always considerate, always tiptoeing. Crowley wouldn’t blame Aziraphale if he were afraid. Not at all.

“What I said—I, I shouldn’t have. I need to talk to you, please. I can’t do this through a door.”

The door was locked, Crowley knew that. He hadn’t even heard Aziraphale try the knob, but it was a silly thing to expect he would. Crowley had a penchant for locking himself away; it was just what he did. He had to keep to himself sometimes, and the only way to ensure he would be alone for it was to lock the door. Aziraphale had such a good heart; he didn’t like these moments at the best of times, and this was one of the worst. Crowley had needed the time, though, he had. To sit alone in silence and mull in his own feelings. Maybe it was time to stop that.

“It’s open,” Crowley called back, and Aziraphale heard the click of the lock as Crowley snapped his fingers. Frivolous little miracles. Magic.

Aziraphale was hesitant, when he stepped in, but he closed the door behind him. There was a long moment of nothing while Aziraphale came around the bed to sit beside Crowley, a healthy and appropriate distance between them. It almost made it worse, but Crowley didn’t blame him. This was better. This was slow. At Aziraphale’s pace. The silence just continued for another long moment, and Crowley watched Aziraphale smooth his hand down over his stomach.

“I—” Aziraphale started, but he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where to begin. “I’m sorry,” he decided. It wasn’t good. Nothing would be good enough.

“Just tell me if you meant it,” Crowley replied. “Do you _believe_ those things you said?”

“No! No, no, no—I could never, I didn’t—no,” Aziraphale wrung his hands together tight. “I don’t believe a word of it. I was upset. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have—”

“I _am_ a demon,” Crowley said. “You have every right to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not _afraid_ , Crowley. I’ve never been afraid of you—I shouldn’t have said anything that I said. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“But you _said_ it—”

“I know what I said, and I’m so dreadfully sorry, I can’t describe it. I can’t find the words; you have to understand. I’ve never liked the way you treated your plants, but that doesn’t mean that I should overreact like that.” Aziraphale looked him, just to ensure he was listening. “Oh, Crowley. I’ve _seen_ you with children, and I’ve seen how happy you are about _ours._ I know you wouldn’t hurt them. They’ll cry and complain, because that’s what children do, but never because you’ve hurt them. I—I know you wouldn’t.” He even dared to reach out and take Crowley’s hand.

“Plenty of demons hurt kids,” Crowley muttered, but he didn’t take his hand away.

“You’re not ‘plenty of demons’, dear. You’re you. You’ve always been just that. Maybe demons hurt kids, but Crowley doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.”

Crowley took in a sharp breath, but he nodded. “What about them, then?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t—it’s like I can’t feel them anymore. I can’t stop thinking that they’ve _left_ me, or something worse, and I haven’t slept.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale leaned closer, “oh, Crowley, no. They haven’t, I promise. They’ve, well. Will you look at me, please?”

Crowley did as he was asked. He watched as Aziraphale took his hand and pressed it into his stomach; Aziraphale still felt _warm_. Crowley jerked to look at him, then, right in the eye. His own were wide and almost terrified at the prospect, if he’d thought this through correctly.

“They’ve just changed shape, I suppose,” Aziraphale tried, though he didn’t much understand it himself. “They didn’t exactly leave me a detailed memorandum on it.”

Crowley even managed a laugh. Aziraphale smiled.

“They’ve started to grow, though. I can feel it. Like proper children.” Aziraphale squeezed his fingers over Crowley’s. “Though, I suppose fetus is a better word. Fetuses, I mean.”

“Do you still hear them?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook his head, “I haven’t since it happened.”

“When did it happen? I mean, was it recent?”

The color seemed to drop from Aziraphale’s face at the memory, and his smile was no more happy than it was near distraught. “Just before you slammed the door,” he admitted, his laugh a nervous attempt at hiding the ache.

“Oh,” Crowley stiffened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Don’t apologize, please, dear,” Aziraphale moved closer, taking Crowley’s face into his hands. “It’s entirely my fault. The things I said about you were horrid and uncalled for. I will do everything to make sure that they know that none of it was true.”

Crowley broke into a smile, if only because he couldn’t help himself when Aziraphale was so close, so earnest. He pressed their foreheads together, his eyes closed, and he nodded. “It’s alright, angel. I—I forgive you,” and the word tasted strange on his lips. Aziraphale _beamed_ for it, though.

“Might I, well. Might you kiss me, Crowley? I realize it might be too soon, but—”

And Crowley kissed him, a gentle thing right there with his hand still pressed over Aziraphale’s stomach. His other hand tangled into his hair, now loose from the braid it had been in earlier. This was what Aziraphale had asked for months ago, over six of them. And it was here, it was happening. Aziraphale was _truly_ pregnant, and there was nothing that Crowley could say to express how happy it made him. It erased the fight near completely, there, in the taste of Aziraphale’s lips against him. The feel of his tongue. The press of his fingers into Crowley’s jaw, into his cheeks. Aziraphale was suddenly everywhere, so close, and just close enough that Crowley could feel a familiar warmth bubbling around him.

When they pulled apart, Aziraphale was laughing to himself. Crowley was smiling, his hands still just where they’d been. With a look on his face that said he was almost too afraid to pull away, Crowley inched closer. Until their breath was the same, and it was hard to focus on anything except the tiniest little details. The dimples in Aziraphale’s cheeks, the filaments that speckled his nose. Even to the length of his eyelashes, which had always been just a touch long.

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley told him. “You’ve always been beautiful, but I think you make a spectacular woman.”

Aziraphale almost snorted his laughter, pushing back against Crowley so that they could see each other again. Crowley was correct, and Aziraphale really, truly, believed him. If not for the look on his face, but for the way his knuckles brushed along the side of Aziraphale’s face in such a gentle pull, it might have not been there at all. But it was done slowly and with awe; how unworthy a demon was to touch the skin of an angel, but he would do it anyway. Because he was allowed, because Aziraphale wanted him to.

“I suspect they can’t watch us anymore, either.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale grabbed his hand. “That is—a wonderful thing, but no. I don’t think I can.”

When Crowley’s face twisted just the slightest but of subtlety, Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him once more.

“No, it’s not that. I would rather call this little spat a once and done sort of thing, really. I’m just exhausted, you must understand. I could barely get up the stairs.”

“Angel, you should have said something. Christ.”

Crowley made short work of it, the miracle that had Aziraphale in his night gown, before helping him lie back into the pillows. His gesture didn’t go unnoticed, when he made pointed sure to settle Aziraphale in on his own side of the bed. When Aziraphale did settle, he near buried his face into the pillow to inhale. Surely, Crowley wouldn’t spend all day with him in bed, even if he’d admitted to not getting any sleep. Crowley hadn’t very much ever _needed_ sleep, habit much as it had become. Even if he didn’t mean to stay, it would surely be fine, here.

“I think,” Aziraphale muttered, “you should attend to the garden.”

“Aziraphale, I don’t think—”

Crowley had brushed his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair, and at that comment, had nearly pulled them away before Aziraphale caught his hand to hold it against his cheek. They stayed like that for a moment, Crowley half bent over the bed with his hand quite hostage, until Aziraphale’s eyes opened again.

“Apologize to them. Treat them gently. As gently as you can.”

“Angel, I don’t really. I mean, I can try. I can definitely try, only because you’ve asked.”

“Because I’ve asked, then,” and Aziraphale let him pull away. “Crowley. If you can’t, it’s alright.”

That was a thing, then. Crowley straightened up his shirt and nodded, pulling his hair back into a ponytail before wishing Aziraphale a good rest. With his gardening bag back in his hand, he had all intentions of going out to attend it at near four in the morning, as it were. There would be no better time to test his ability to keep quiet than for fear of waking up the night’s world around him. When he ducked out into it, it was only with that eye thing he hated so much that he could see half as well as he might have, in the light, but he didn’t hate it so much anymore. In the span of minutes, it had become so incredibly helpful. It let him _see_ what Aziraphale had done.

His favorite plant was right there, still standing tall, green, beautiful, and blightless. Aziraphale had cured it, the entirety of it. There was no mess on the ground of stalks and leaves that Crowley had ripped apart. It was quite like he hadn’t done a thing, save for the way the plants trembled when he approached. Near to the point of falling, when he took the plant’s leaf in his hand. It had always had such large, broad, beautiful leaves. This time, he did not rip at it or shout. He caressed it something gentle with his thumb and cleared his throat.

“I, well,” Crowley started. “You’re, um. Quite a wonderful plant, and I’m rather, well. I’m sorry for what I did. That was wrong of me.”

The trembling in the plants did not so much stop, but it did lessen. Crowley had a sudden streak of pride to smile at what he’d done; there was a chance it wouldn’t be quite as hard as he’d gone and made it out to be. He didn’t want his plants getting soft or anything of the like, but it surely wouldn’t hurt to encourage them every now and again. Only if they were doing an exceedingly wonderful job, of course. But every now and again, he could spare a kind word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 i was gonna make it a bit longer, but that just seemed a good place to end it 𓆏  
>   
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)  
> [My Personal Discord, for updates, fun, and insider secrets!](https://discord.gg/FW8CKg5)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO i have returned after a month of radio silence. So, here is what up. I finished my entire big bang fic, so stay tuned for that in January. I have interviewed for jobs, hoping to hear back. I have begun outlining my original novel (do hope to start writing soon), AND I have been sick for three days. I'm literally living my worst life, but it's alright.
> 
> Haven't had much motivation for fic, but my body is on its last hurrah before I entirely give out, so I have produced a chapter. Hopefully, things can start rolling with this fic now, and I can just crap it out at insane speeds. Ya never know. Thanks for waiting so patiently! I do hope you enjoy the next installment of please don't forget Aziraphale is a lady atm.

Three days wasn’t enough time for anything to happen, and reasonably, all the time Crowley spent on the parenting forums implied that he knew that. On a deeper level, he did know that, but the only thing that he could act on was the anxiousness that sat right on top of it. The _fear_ that something would go wrong, especially now that so much had changed in so little time. Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t started showing, though Crowley wished that he _would_ , but there was an emptiness that circled them quite like a vulture. Even Aziraphale felt a bit colder than he had before Gilgamesh and Astraea disappeared; while he wasn’t worried, Crowley couldn’t help but think it meant they had truly disappeared. Not just gone to grow, as it were, in their proper place like Aziraphale kept insisting. Insistence wasn’t enough to keep Crowley from fretting, from pacing, from picking up the phone on that third day and calling off.

That was how they landed at the Pulsifer-Device household, once again. This time, Anathema was expecting them. Even if she believed she could do no more for them in the second visit that she had for the first, it was still better than nothing. Crowley didn’t want to try with a real human doctor, not after the first trip. Sure, a miracle or two might save them the extra stares of a pregnancy that was already six months along without anything to show, but this was easier. Crowley was always about doing things as easily as possible, especially when it involved a wonderful tea that Anathema had perfected over the years.

“I really do apologize for barging in on you, like this,” Aziraphale said not seconds after they’d gotten their feet in the door.

Anathema waved him off, “it’s fine, really. It’s not as though we’re doing much these days.” Being free of the book, she meant, and Aziraphale knew. He winced about it though, always left wondering what in that book might have helped them all on this strange journey.

Aziraphale did feel warm, though it was often a fickle little thing that he felt. It was never quite there, never quite gone. Flickering, almost, between hot and cold, and he was rather quite bothered by it. Still, as long as nothing was enough to cause concern to his physical health, neither of them were particularly keen of setting foot in a human doctor’s office once again. The first time had been enough, with the paperwork and the waiting. This was so much more convenient, even if it was an imposing thing. Anathema didn’t seem to mind, and Newton didn’t seem around at all.

She took them into the living area, Anathema, and ushered them in to sit. Crowley took the couch, whereby contrast, Aziraphale didn’t sit down at all. He stood in the doorway, fidgeting with a loose button on his cardigan. The whole ordeal had him a bit worried, and frankly, sitting seemed too casual a thing to do when there were supernatural entities at stake. When he didn’t sit, Anathema didn’t pressure; she just looked at him with a strange curve in her lips, an arch in her brow.

“Tea?” she offered; it was quite a custom, after all.

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Aziraphale softened immediately. “Yes, I think I’d like some. If you wouldn’t mind, that is. Crowley?”

“No thanks,” Crowley replied, hand in the air. Anathema nodded and went off without a word. Aziraphale, quite ever living in his own world and not the real one, fidgeted more in the doorway.

“Angel, would you please come and sit?” Crowley beckoned, his hand out for Aziraphale to take, if he would, and have something to anchor on with.

“I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m nervous, Crowley—I don’t even know what it is we hope to _find_ here.”

“Just, well,” Crowley shrugged, “to make sure they’re both still there, I guess. See what’s going on. Anathema should be able to do that.”

“Yes, well—”

“Tea,” Anathema returned not a moment later, a small cup in her hand on a saucer. She set it down on the coffee table, nearest Aziraphale, though he still seemed set on refusal to sit. Anathema took her own seat, in an armchair, and crossed her ankles. “I could hear your bickering in the kitchen,” she said, pointedly with a thumb over her shoulder to gesture to the adjacent room: the kitchen.

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale wrung his hands together, “I do feel as though we’re imposing.”

“I invited you in, didn’t I?” Anathema’s look was a playful type of scrutiny where she smiled, but her eyes were sharp. “It’s about the baby thing, right?”

“The baby thing,” Crowley snorted. “It’s definitely about the baby thing. Tell her, angel.”

“Oh, well. The baby thing,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I don’t think there’s anything worth fussing over, not yet. It’s just that, well, you see—”

And Aziraphale broke off into a long-winded sort of story about what had been happening, too long and too many details. Crowley didn’t stop him, not if sharing the whole thing would make him feel even the slightest bit better. He deserved to feel better, after all. So, Aziraphale spun on about the garden, the argument, and how the children had been quite vocal in their own way. They’d appeared as ever-growing bits of energy, swishing about and swinging. This was the part of the story that Crowley hadn’t heard, not really, and he listened intently when Aziraphale described how the energy seemed to have feeling, thought. Specifically, Crowley felt a bit lonely learning that the red dot, of which Aziraphale was sure to be Astraea, had always found a happy home right up in the crook of Crowley’s neck. Only, both of the little energy balls were gone. Crowley and Aziraphale were alone, the thermostat in the house had been bumped up a few degrees, and Aziraphale was experiencing the flickering heat.

“Right,” Anathema said, straightening her glasses. “That’s been quite the few months, then.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Crowley lamented, his head leaned over the back of the couch now. Aziraphale did feel rather bad for it, the effort Crowley had gone through with all of this. In spite of being offered an out before the children had even really existed in any sort of form, Crowley had gone full force ahead and taken care of everything and anything he could. Aziraphale couldn’t have been luckier, and he knew that well.

“I don’t think I want to know the half of it, honestly,” Anathema laughed. Nobody blamed her.

“We were just hoping you could, well, maybe _see_ ,” Aziraphale pressed. “I know you didn’t have much luck last time, but maybe now, well—my assumption is that they are bodies now.”

Anathema snorted in response, “sure, I can try. Let me get a look, alright?”

Anathema leaned forward onto her knees, folding her hands together, and she did _look_. A very pointed stare, glare almost, where she nearly peered right through Aziraphale’s very soul. His aura was a strong thing, of blue skies and flitted joy, but there was more to it now. Something that didn’t _belong_ to him, and Anathema saw it with a bit of dread in her chest. It was dark, purple, and even where she could see the might-be forms of two fetuses, the aura seemed to flow between them and around in a mass of swirling energy. Something she didn’t understand, had never seen, and was sure she didn’t want to do either of those. Two beings that shared one aura simply wasn’t something she’d ever heard of, and if she turned to her family, she was sure they might assume she was making it up.

One thing Anathema did know, however, was that these creatures, lack of a better term, were nothing from Earth or what had created it. They didn’t abide to the same rules, the same time. Already, and three days only she’d been told, she could see the aura filling outlines of true fetuses. Maybe enough that they would be children, soon, in name and in breath. Where soon, and this she did assume, their hands would separate, and they might each grow an aura all their own. For now, it was a mass of purple swirling fear, if she were to describe, and she did attempt to describe it.

“I’m sure they’ll detach,” Anathema said, “if that’s what you were worried about.”

“Well, no.” Aziraphale had finally sat down, upon hearing just how _strange_ it all was. He and Crowley had strange auras, but that was to be expected. They were supernatural—ethereal, occult. Maybe learning about the auras of their children would have helped decipher what they were, but it only brought a lingering mass of confusion instead. Everyone had auras, even those of Heaven and Hell, but Gilgamesh and Astraea seemed to have one aura, molding and mixing and waiting for a proper moment to explode.

“It’s like pent up energy, almost.” Anathema had straightened back in her chair. “I don’t even know if I’d call it an aura yet, but I think they’re working on it? You did say they seemed to be intelligent, anyway. I’m not sure if I believe that, but—what exactly did you say they did?”

“Well, it was like they were exploring, I suppose.”

“Exploring.” Anathema pushed her glasses up.

“Learning about their environment, yes. There were times where they would appear as more than just energy, too. Visions, I believe,” Aziraphale paused to look at Crowley, who looked rather shocked at the admittance. “The first time, they _apologized_ for what sorts of things I would experience during this. But after that, it was like visions of life. They were already growing _features_ , I suppose.”

“Features. So,” Anathema shifted, uncomfortable, “they were sending you visions of the future? But what do you mean by features?”

“It was like their bodies had yet to form, but I know for a fact they will both have strawberry blond hair. Strange, isn’t it?” Aziraphale even laughed. “I do believe Gilgamesh has already decided on a style.”

“I’m sorry—Gilgamesh?” Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Like, the Sumerian king?”

“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “We’ve already named them. They were polite enough to tell me their genders ahead of time. Gilgamesh and Astraea.”

“Ah,” Anathema said, like it explained everything, though she was no less confused. She was struggling pointedly to wrap her head around the entire idea that two energies had been spiraling around in the real world scooping up as much information as they could before they’d stored off in Aziraphale’s _womb_ —which she was also still trying to wrap her head around. It had been the exact story Aziraphale told, and his enthusiasm had her believing it. Even if it sounded strange, preposterous. Crowley was even there to back him up in face alone, as he wasn’t doing much of the talking. Rightfully so, where he didn’t know half of the things Aziraphale was sharing. Silence made sense, put out as he was.

“What do you think, then?” Aziraphale asked.

Anathema wanted to say she thought he was crazy, or that he’d made this all up for some outlandish reason she wasn’t immortal enough to imagine. Given what she’d seen, however, it would have been a false thing to say. She _did_ believe him, and she had seen it with her own eyes. That spiraling mass of purple energy, pulsating and growing like a storm that was one-part fire and one-part water, enough to destroy something large. What exactly it was—she didn’t know. Anathema was quite certain she didn’t _want_ to know.

Over the past years, she’d been enjoying her quiet new life. She dedicated her time to research, to helping at the local library. Often times, Adam Young would still stop by and have something to say or ask something rather particular. Newton worked odd hours, odd jobs, but he made enough money for them to live comfortably without having to rely too heavily on Device funds. She enjoyed the lazy mornings where they stayed in bed until noon, then made tea in the kitchen only half-dressed. It wasn’t something she was ready to give up for another adventure, as nice as adventures tended to be. This swirling fear in purple was not an adventure she wanted to have, and the less she knew, the better. Everyone could afford to be selfish, now and again.

“I think whatever you have there is something that doesn’t belong here,” Anathema said. “It’s nothing of Earth. I have no idea what they are, but they are not human. I wouldn’t even believe supernatural would cover it. Honestly,” and she shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Aziraphale’s face dropped, at that. It hadn’t been anything along the lines of what Aziraphale had hoped to hear, but that wasn’t the point. She had told the truth, at least, and he could tell from the look on her face. Something in her eyes spoke of fear, but the set line in her jaw said that she wasn’t about to say that aloud. What she’d said was all she would be able to manage, and it had been so much of the truth that it tugged all the wrong ways at Aziraphale. He’d really just wanted to hear that they would be normal, that life would carry on from here, and things would be more human than they were. But that was turning to be nothing more than a pipe dream, and he smiled.

“Well, thank you. I think we really should be going.” All too soon, and all in haste. Anathema didn’t even offer a longer stay, she just nodded.

“If you say so. It was nice to see you again,” but she hardly meant it. She was too wrapped up in thoughts of the future, even regret. The book would surely help them now, but they had chosen to get rid of it. Agnes wouldn’t be around to help her with this, so it was better that she stayed out of it. She had a life to protect, after all, with Newton.

When they left, Anathema did not show them to the door. Aziraphale had not so much as touched the tea he’d been brought, and Anathema stared at the cooling cup instead. On a level of truth, she knew what Crowley and Aziraphale were. A demon and an angel both in equal measures involved with an end of the world that did not happen. There were no books that existed to tell her what kind of thing an angel and a demon would create, especially not when they dabbled like humans did. The uncertainty would kill them all, she was certain; they would not blame her for staying out of it. They couldn’t. After all, Anathema Pulsifer-Device was only human, and human she would remain.

It wasn’t until Crowley had parked the Bentley in the driveway, and they were both safely nestled inside with coats in the closet, that words were shared. Until then, the only sound between them had been of useless breathing and the Bentley’s wheels on the road. Crowley hadn’t even bothered with the radio, given how tense Aziraphale had been the second he’d gotten seated. The radio might have played music not intended for the particular ride home they had had, in which “stiff” was the operative word. Really, Aziraphale had every right to be upset with what truth he had learned, but it was the outward projection of that feeling which turned everything upside-down and sideways. Crowley had just been happy to hear the truth, really.

That had been his first point, watching Aziraphale pour himself the first glass of scotch he’d had since the children came into being. It had been a good thing that Anathema had told them the truth, because a lie would do them no favors. The more they could learn about Gilgamesh and Astraea before they were born, the better prepared they would be to raise them, to help them. It was becoming more and more clear by the second that they would be _children_ , even if just for a time. Aziraphale would be birthing infants, and from there, they would need extremely specialized care. The truth was a good thing.

“They sound like _monsters_ ,” Aziraphale mourned, throwing the scotch back. He didn’t take another drink, just left the glass on the counter and moved to sit on the couch. Crowley was still standing idly in the entry way, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“You can’t really believe that, can you?” Crowley asked, wincing. “I mean—they’re kids.”

“Are they? You saw how terrified Anathema looked, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes—”

“We can’t just ignore that! Even she knows this isn’t natural. Oh, Christ, Crowley—we’ve done something against the very _nature_ of God’s plan, haven’t we? Something horrible, something—”

“Listen to yourself!” Crowley near shouted, finally stalking across the room. “You know what I say to God’s plan? Fuck it,” he hissed, moving around to sit on the couch. “We _created_ something, Aziraphale. Not just something, but someone—someones! Two of them. No one can take that away from us, not even the reality of what they are. They’re our _kids_ , for Heaven’s sake.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who had stopped blinking a whole minute ago. His eyes were strangely human looking, in that moment, with yellow irises and slitted pupils, but they were undeniably Crowley. Crowley, who threw himself headfirst into everything without so much as a second thought, yet still managed to think things through better than Aziraphale did. Aziraphale, who thought through things for a painful length of time, and still somehow managed to come to the wrong conclusion every time. Once, his conclusion had been that Crowley and he couldn’t possibly, ever, come together in such a way like _love_. Now, he had quite truthfully believed Gilgamesh and Astraea to be a monster. Crowley had such conviction in his eyes that they were _not_ a monster, that Aziraphale’s breath caught, and he second guessed himself.

Of the both of them, Aziraphale was the only one with any truth of evidence to _believe_ that they were children. After all, for six months he’d gotten to look at them. He’d seen them through visions and dreams, and they were children. There was nothing that would have said otherwise but his own doubt, and where the room might have turned a sickly cold for it, once, there was just stillness between them as Aziraphale sorted through his own thoughts. They were a jumbled mess, really, of reality and what he was assuming reality to be. Anathema had seen the truth, but in the same vein of hope, so had Aziraphale. Once. Before Gilgamesh and Astraea had disappeared—and Anathema _had_ seen their auras this time. In body shapes like real people.

“You still in there?” Crowley asked, always gently, with the brush of his knuckle against Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale jumped but nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m thinking, I suppose.”

“What’s there to think about, exactly?”

Another fine question. This time, Aziraphale even cracked a smile. “I envy you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

That seemed to leave Crowley at a loss for words. His eyes had gone a bit wide, a bit more yellow, and his hand fell away to wring in his lap. Envy wasn’t something an angel should feel, really, and especially not when looking at a demon. Even in the amount of time they had not seen a soul from Heaven or Hell—Raguel seemed to have kept her end of the bargain—Crowley still feared for it every day. Words of sin from the lips of angel were warning signs, cautionary tales of just how to Fall. Crowley didn’t want that for Aziraphale. Even if, in the end, it might make their lives easier. Falling was a painful way to find ease in living.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Crowley eventually decided on, and he believed it. Aziraphale just laughed, though, and it was a lighter thing than he had done before.

“I’m supposed to be a being of love, yet you’re the one who has found it _so_ easy to believe in these two. I wish I could—and I should be able to. I’ve seen them, I know—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley urged, “don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you might even need to _rest_.”

“I do plenty of resting,” Aziraphale retorted, scandalized by the idea. Still, he might have settled a bit deeper into the back of the sofa. Crowley was right. If he didn’t need to rest his body, he surely needed to rest his mind. There was far too much thinking going on for it to be any sort of healthy; he already knew that Gilgamesh and Astraea would take their toll on him, it would be better not to worsen it with his own toll. Lest, of course, he heard a particular toll that would spell an _end,_ and he was rather enjoying himself of late.

“How about I run out and get something? Miracles, miracles, I know,” Crowley defended, “but it’s something humans do. Might be fun to keep it up.”

“Yes, I am rather fond of the human things. Miracled food isn’t quite as good, my dear.”

Crowley snorted, stood off the sofa, and straightened up his pants. “Yeah, yeah. You’re always so _picky_ , anyway. I’ll be back with something later. Town’s a bit of a drive, and—”

“I know, dear. Maybe you’re more nervous than you let on?” another laugh. Aziraphale was thoroughly entertained, and even if Crowley was the butt of said entertainment, he wasn’t about to be angry about it. Instead, he leaned over to plant an unnecessarily wet kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead before draping the afghan that had come to live on the back of the sofa over Aziraphale.

“How’s Chinese sound?” Crowley asked, already walking towards the door with his keys in hand.

“Wonderful, dear. Do hurry back, yes?”

“Miss me already?” Crowley _beamed_ and waved before stepping out the door.

The one thing that was becoming more and more difficult about the cottage they had purchased was the distance. If Aziraphale hadn’t had a sudden penchant for real and purchased food, it wouldn’t have mattered once or at all. The distance was practically ideal, because it kept them out of sight, hopefully out of mind. Then again, there was this sudden thing for _food_. Which meant Crowley had to pack himself back into the Bentley and drive a bit of ways into town to get Chinese, and then return fast enough to hope that the food hadn’t gone cold. That was one miracle Aziraphale wouldn’t know about, and that was fine.

Besides, it wasn’t really about the food. Not really. It never had been. Aziraphale _enjoyed_ the finer things in life like little cakes and sushi rolls, but it had always been about doing it with Crowley. It was the one thing that they had consistently done together over the centuries—met for food or drink. It had been a common ground, even if sometimes one or the other didn’t have much to eat, or anything at all, it had been something to talk over. Really, and Crowley believed this, if they hadn’t stopped for food so many times, they might have never gotten as far as they did. Eating wasn’t so much important as the being in proximity, because it gave them a chance to talk without strings, without the lording over of their prospective missions. It was a calm and peaceful sort of thing, and if Crowley had to drive to continue it, well. He’d just drive a bit faster than Aziraphale would have liked.

Once he actually reached the town, the Chinese shop wasn’t more than a couple minutes in. One of those edge sort of shops where they were trying location as a ploy to make more money. Their convenience would be one of the reasons people stopped, after all, and Crowley was always a fan of places with a parking lot. He parked over two of the spaces with practiced ease, then stepped out of the car to ignore a passing man who gave him a dirty look for his actions. The Bentley was practically a priceless heirloom, at this point; he wasn’t about to sacrifice her beauty for parking correctly. He hadn’t done it yet, and he wouldn’t ever think to.

Inside, the shop was dead. Empty, almost, save for the man at the counter. It was a bit deceptive from the number of cars in the lot, but someone had to be in the back cooking food. Then, save of course for the amount of times Crowley had been in this particular shop, he knew that it was never empty. Not like this. Not where the air was still and even so much as a step out of line felt shattering and strange, at all once. He’d promised Aziraphale Chinese, though, and he would deliver. Strange as the air around him felt, he approached the counter.

Where the man had usually known right away who he was, this one looked at Crowley like a stranger. With a bit of disgust, even, and Crowley pointedly looked past it. Must have been someone new, he thought, and he wouldn’t jeopardize the reputation of one of his favorite shops just for the bad attitude of one new employee. Crowley rattled off his order with practiced ease, then stood off to the side while they prepared it. Usually, he was left to wait about ten, fifteen minutes—depending on the amount of people in the shop. This time, he had barely even pulled his phone out of his pocket before his order, fully prepared and cooked, was being plopped onto the counter none too ceremoniously for him to take.

“That was fast,” Crowley commented; a lively sort of comment that he meant to sound like he was pleased, not as though he was horribly suspicious of whatever it was going on around him. He was suspicious. He was so horribly suspicious, that when he reached out for the bag of food, and the cashier _grabbed_ him by the wrist, he wasn’t even surprised. He was mad, sure, enough that he might have sent sparks of flames flying out if he wasn’t afraid of harming the store—this wasn’t just a new employee. This was hardly even a human, really.

All at once, Crowley recognized the face. It was no _demon_ he’d ever known, but it was, without a doubt, a demon he’d seen. At the flower shop, when the customer had seemingly vanished away to the point the worker hadn’t even looked to have done a thing. Across the street, through the cars, that Crowley had seen the face if _something_. Someone. A demon who had been watching them just as surely as Raguel had been, though she had been certainly less subtle about it. Aziraphale would have been an easier one to fool, with his routine. Crowley hadn’t been one for routines, not really. It made spying on him significantly harder, and now, it was just a foolish thing that lit an anger in his stomach unparalleled to anything before.

Once, he’d only had to protect himself. It had been much less a selfish thing than an understanding that Aziraphale _was_ capable of handling his own safety. Maybe he did quite like a play here or there where Crowley was a hero who swooped in to rescue him, but it was never strictly necessary. It was a dramatic play at attention. While maybe Crowley wouldn’t ever be able to say for sure who might win in a fight if they were to truly be on opposite sides, to truly hate each other, he still was certain of Aziraphale’s prowess on the battlefield. It had been no mistake when he was chosen to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, after all. Aziraphale’s current state left a bit to chance, though, and it wasn’t even just Aziraphale. Once, Crowley had only had to protect himself, but _now_ there was a horrid little f-word to think about. Demons weren’t supposed to have families, after all. Especially not with an angel. And of all angels, especially not with Aziraphale.

The extra thing of protection only fueled his anger, but the demon held tight. It knew, well enough, that Crowley was soft enough to not outburst in a place that he enjoyed. The Chinese restaurant would do well enough, and the demon even grinned at its own cleverness. Crowley was caught, quite honestly, by social convention and his own unwillingness to make a mess of things he liked. There was truly no better trap; none that a demon would be able to contrive, after all.

“Don’t think we don’t _know_ ,” the demon said in a hiss, in a spit of fire. “We’ve been _watching_ you.”

“Yeah?” Crowley mustered enough composure to snort, to mock. “Must be real entertaining for a shit like you. Got nothing else for you down there, do they?”

The grip tightened, and Crowley didn’t so much as flinch. “You’ve created a _monster_ ,” the thing said, “and you will answer for your crimes.”

“Answered for them once. You couldn’t kill me then, and you certainly—” Crowley wrenched his hand free and back-stepped through the force of it, “—won’t kill me now.”

The demon glared, glowered, but made no move like Crowley had thought. He remembered tearing down the walls of Raguel’s fake reality and pressing inward with a light of fire, just in time to witness what would have been, unmistakably, Aziraphale’s death. Raguel had been ready to see the end of him, and Crowley had expected nearly the same treatment here. That the demon would throw itself over the counter and wrestle with Crowley until one of them had been declared victorious. In their theater, Crowley wasn’t sure just how easy a fight it would be—he did _not_ want to mess the place up. Truly. As silly a thing as it was, his thought for the safety of the building. Miracles could repair it, but he would know what it was under the surface. Only, in ticking seconds of tense wonderment, nothing happened. The demon stood there on the other side of the counter with a nasty look on its face, but it did nothing.

“We are not _authorized_ ,” it said, a deep, static sort of growl, “to attack. Only to watch.”

Crowley blinked. Not entirely disappointed by the statement, but he was certainly confused. Surely, if Gilgamesh and Astraea were as dangerous as Raguel had led them to believe, as Anathema had tried to tell them in so many words, Satan would have authorized _at least_ a capture. Well. Maybe. Crowley wasn’t exactly helpful in that situation, seeing as how he was not actually the one with child, so to say. He’d just helped make them; everything else was Aziraphale. Maybe it did make more sense to leave him alive.

“Took too long to find you,” the demon snarled. “That creature you made—can’t _sense_ it anymore.”

“How do you know it’s not dead then?” Crowley snapped back, though the sound of his own voice nearly caught him off guard. What a horrid thing to refer to Gilgamesh and Astraea as a singular _it_ , instead of what they were. But it was for the best. It would keep them safe.

“We’re not _stupid_ , Crowley,” it shouted at him. “It’s only gone! The time is not certain, but we know it will be back. When it is—you will _all_ die.”

Crowley stiffened, but he had his out. He took his bag of food and made a slow, steady retreat with his back to the door. Just on the off chance the demon was lying, of course, because demons _did_ that. It was what they did, something about the very nature of a demon. Wonderful, really, having that home-field advantage. Crowley could have laughed. He didn’t, and instead used his back to press out through the door. He didn’t take his eyes off that door until he was in the Bentley with the food safely secured in the passenger seat.

Maybe the demon was lying about all of it, but there was quite a good chance it wasn’t. There was quite the chance, in fact, that the demon had been so uncreative in his scare-tactics that he had told Crowley the entire truth of his situation. When Gilgamesh and Astraea disappeared to grow, like proper children, they had disappeared off the radar. Heaven and Hell would be in respective messes attempting to find what had happened, through clearly Hell had an upper hand. They knew close enough where Crowley and Aziraphale were staying, were _hiding_. Even if they couldn’t do anything. Which gave Crowley more pause than he needed to have. They couldn’t do anything. Hadn’t been authorized to do anything.

Just what were the chances that Gilgamesh and Astraea were invincible in this stage? What were the chances that one of the things they’d been learning was the immortality of an angel and a demon, respectively, and now that they were growing true bodies, would be almost as near-indestructible as a true angel or demon? Not quite immortal, but immortal in spirit instead of body. The question would be left, then, and it was a question that Crowley was certain God and Satan would have to ask themselves when seeking to destroy these children. If they had the same spiritual immortality as an angel or a demon, what would happen if that spirit was freed from its corporeal form? Discorporation might be a great way to send Crowley or Aziraphale back to Hell or Heaven, respectively, but it might be an even better way to free whatever extra might would be locked inside a human body, provided Gilgamesh and Astraea remained unharmed.

Were they safe? Until they were born, that was. But just how long would it be until they were born? Months? Years? Crowley was sure of it now; Gilgamesh and Astraea would look like children, but they would never _be_ children. Not in the same way that Warlock had been, or even Adam Young. What days they used to be, easy, when Crowley and Aziraphale only had to watch a would-be Anti-Christ grow up. Competency did not look or feel particularly good, and Crowley drove back to the cottage in a bit of a rage, a bit of a speed. In a situation where competency was required, and neither one of them had much of a track record for it, failure seemed a hefty option. Not a viable one, of course, which made things _difficult._

When Crowley arrived back at the cottage, he was inside with the food before the Bentley had even completely turned off. The scene before him was always enough to calm him, really: to see Aziraphale huddled under that afghan with the food channel on in the background while he poked through an old, beaten novel. He hadn’t so much moved since Crowley left, and the gentleness of it was near enough to calm the growing fear burning up in his chest. Not quite entirely, though, but enough that Crowley could give him a proper greeting, another kiss, and then serve the food without so much as a _hint_ that something was wrong.

Eventually, Crowley did need to sit down on the sofa. The food was set out on the coffee table, served well enough for the moment, but Aziraphale could get seconds if he so desired. It was a wonderful little display, really, save for the fact that Crowley could not get his knee to stop bouncing. Not even a miracle would contain his nerves, and Aziraphale had picked up on it immediately. He set aside his novel and leaned into Crowley’s shoulder, running his fingers in a soothing line down the inseam of Crowley’s jeans, down to his knee where only the weight of Aziraphale’s hand seemed strong enough to stop the jitters.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’m not sure,” Crowley admitted, and it wasn’t a lie. Everything his mind had raced through in the car was nothing more than a mere speculation, and speculations weren’t going to save their children anytime soon. Not now, especially with the confirmation that Hell was also out there looking for them. Raguel had warned them, maybe where she shouldn’t have, but Crowley had seen proof. He remembered the way that the veil over the restaurant had lightened, lifted, as he’d pulled out of the parking lot. Free of demons, no doubt, as whatever that one’s plan had been, it was accomplished.

Crowley told Aziraphale the gist of it, the entire line of what had happened. Not a single detail was left out, not even so small as the way the air had felt around him as he’d ordered. Aziraphale listened carefully, moving only once to curl his hair behind his ear, and Crowley had stopped to stare for but a moment. He was so incredibly lucky, he knew, to have Aziraphale in such a way that he was _safe_ in his want to lean close, to rest his cheek into Crowley’s shoulder and look the way he did. Crowley rather did think he was stunning with his hair long and tightly curled, with the redness in his cheek, and the slightly higher hips. Aziraphale, in any form, was something he’d wanted to protect for as long as he could remember. Now would be no different.

“You believe Hell is after us as well,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

“It’s not about belief, angel, they _are_. I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”

“Right, right, but what the demon _said._ They can’t seem to find the children anymore? Do you really think that, well, that being in this state,” which he said with a pointed roll of his hand over the roll of his stomach, “makes them imperceivable?”

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility. Raguel knew where they were nearly at the same time you knew they existed, did she not?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, a bit dazed. He hadn’t really thought Crowley would remember a detail like that. It rather hurt, anyway, the detail. That the first person to know about the children had been an enemy, not the father.

“Whatever she said got Heaven off our trail, but clearly Hell has done their own work. They found _us_ , and even with the kids no farther away, they still think they’re gone. I really, really believe—” and he had to believe this, really, for his own sanity, “—that the kids are safe for now. Whatever they’ve done in there has kept Hell from finding them, and I’m sure it’ll keep Heaven away too.”

“But if—what stupidity of it all, then!” Aziraphale was suddenly angry. “If anyone had but _eyes_ , Crowley, they would be able to find them. It’s not particularly difficult, or I hope it won’t be after long.”

Crowley gulped, and he did agree. He’d thought about it too long for it to be anything but a vision, at this point. The sight of Aziraphale _with_ child—at the moment, it was impossible to tell. Really, only affirmation from Anathema had convinced Crowley that Aziraphale even _was_ pregnant. But now, with assurance, he could see Aziraphale growing heavier with it. He even anticipated it, really, just the sight. Even if it would make it painfully easy to tell just where Gilgamesh and Astraea were hiding, but it left one pointed flaw in Aziraphale’s anger.

“I don’t think any of those bastards have ever proved to be smarter than a stack of shit,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale calmed immediately into a hearty, light laugh. Crowley did have a point. Even Beelzebub and Gabriel had been easy to deter with talk of some _Ineffable Plan_ , which had been fake from the moment of conception. Crowley didn’t actually _believe_ that any of what had happened with Armageddon was planned, not by Satan, and not by God. It had been a wrench in the Great Plan, the real one, but nothing more. Heaven and Hell would want their war forever, and there was something in Crowley that had always feared it would come—Anti-Christ or not. There were always ways. That, and Gabriel’s orders would have come straight from the Divine Herself; he’d always been a stickler for rules. They all had been—Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. The lot of them. Not so much in Hell, maybe, but Beelzebub had fallen for it just as easily.

“Besides,” and Crowley was posturing with this. A lot of hope, a lot of false niceties, but it was comfort that mattered. “Maybe it’s not _your_ body doing the hiding. Maybe it’s them. Maybe they’ll be safe from the second they’re born, too. Like real little humans.”

“Oh, maybe we can even send them to school,” Aziraphale pressed his hands together. “I would so _love_ to teach them to read.”

“You wouldn’t want to home school them? Hell, they might not even _need_ schooled.”

Aziraphale shrugged, “there’s no way to know until we meet them. Oh, Crowley, I hope it’s soon. I know it could be really any length of time, but it would like it to be _now._ ”

“I know,” Crowley sighed. He put an arm around Aziraphale and gave him a squeeze, loosely, and then fell back into the sofa when Aziraphale leaned farther into him, onto his chest. “I’d like to meet them too, angel. Besides, you’ve at least _seen_ them, haven’t you?”

“Well, not entirely. Like I said, all I know for sure is that they will have strawberry blond hair.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but Aziraphale didn’t want to tell Crowley that Astraea had chosen large yellow snake eyes for herself. He knew, better than anyone, about Crowley’s dislike of certain features he’d never been able to rid himself of. The brand on his face, the eyes—they were just constant reminders of what he truly was. He didn’t care for them, even if Aziraphale—even if Astraea—saw them as something more. Something uniquely _him_ and not a badge of hatred. Still, he feared what Crowley would think if he shared, so he kept his lips tightly pressed together.

“Wonder where they got that,” Crowley mused. “Strawberry blond. Such a particular color.”

“I think it’s quite a perfect match, don’t you agree? It’s nearly a perfect compromise between the two of us.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, please, dear. Do I really need to explain our respective hair colors, or do you surely understand a bit of color mixing?”

Crowley snorted, “no need to be tart about it, angel.

“Well, whatever you believe, then. I still think it’s rather, well, cute. Adorable, even. They looked at us both and couldn’t decide to take after one or the other, so they found a happy middle.”

“Yeah, yeah. Something like that. Better you than me, after all,” and Crowley pressed a kiss into his hair. Aziraphale knew he’d been right, then, not to share the bit about the eyes. Gilgamesh hadn’t chosen his eyes, not since Aziraphale had seen him, so really, he wasn’t lying. He was just omitting an extra bit of information that Crowley really did not need to know.

It would be fine, he thought. They ate in relative silence, the recipe for coleslaw going on in the background, and settled in to watch the apple pie recipe after they’d finished. There wasn’t much warmth from the children, not anymore, but this was warm enough. Aziraphale even found he was enjoying these nothing evenings where all they did was sit in each other’s presence and watch the telly until one of them had fallen asleep. Peace was beginning to feel quite nice, and like something Aziraphale wasn’t ready to give up for anything. Not even for a thought that Hell was minutes from their doorstep—they hadn’t a clue. The cottage was safe for the moment, the long moment.

Maybe Aziraphale would begin to experience fatigue. Maybe he would find himself waking with illnesses he didn’t know he could acquire—a fever, a cough, a runny nose. And maybe he would find himself sleeping on the couch for more nights than not, for lack of energy to walk up the stairs, but it was alright. If only because it was peaceful, it was alright. Crowley was never more than a call away, and there were nights he opted not to sleep at all so he would be even closer. Never did there come a knock, and Crowley hadn’t seen the demon since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 THANKS FOR BEING PATIENT 𓆏  
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> 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's called a double update. I finished this last night but i was so dead on being ill that i decided to wait until this morning when I could double look at it to post. Go me. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Big things are happening

It was getting colder again, as the months edged towards the end of the year. Fall was in full bloom with reds and oranges, and really, the cottage was the optimal place to watch it happen. Even as Crowley still tended to the garden every day, watched the sun work its way over the horizon to shine over the new and falling leaves, there was something better happening _inside_ the cottage. In fact, Crowley hadn’t much ventured farther than the garden since it had happened, since it had grown just in time with the rest of Autumn. Maybe Spring was supposed to be that of new life, but Aziraphale had never really been one to follow in with the normalities of life. Apparently, neither of the children would be much for that, either.

Aziraphale had started _showing._ It had been just like the movies and the novels talked about, when they noticed. There had been one of those rare moments allowed when Aziraphale had made it up the stairs to sleep in bed, and when he _woke_ , he’d caught something a bit different in the mirror. Even for his body, Aziraphale had never had an issue gaining or losing in size. This had been the body he wanted, he liked, and that Crowley had been so taken with these past years. So, he kept it. He’d kept it, even in the form of a woman; noticing something like this was an easy thing, even in its subtlety. It had been the awe, not the need to confirm, that had led Aziraphale to stripping out of his nightgown. The awe of seeing, of being able to put the bare skin of his hand to the bump in his stomach. A firm bump, it was, and nothing quite so soft about it.

However long he stood there sort of blurred together, in front of the mirror. He was wearing nothing more than a blue pair of cotton panties, looking at himself. Behind him, in the reflection of the mirror, he could see Crowley stirring. There might have been a time where he would have worried about Crowley seeing him like this, naked as he was. Even at the beginning of their relationship, or the beginning of this new body, but now—it felt more like old news, like something precious anyway. Crowley never reacted like it was something new or outrageous, and when he sat up in bed, he just smiled. He understood, too. There was something beautiful in it, too, how words didn’t have to be for something to be said. They were beyond that, truly, and Aziraphale smiled all to himself.

Crowley crawled out of bed, still clad in those silk pajamas Aziraphale loved so much and came up behind him to rest his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulders. They looked on in the mirror together, and Crowley’s hands dipped down to ghost over Aziraphale’s, over his stomach; Crowley smiled into his ear and kissed him as gently as he could. They’d waited _months_ for this, to see the proof. Maybe it was a foolishly, silly human thing to do, to be so excited about an extra bump in Aziraphale’s stomach, but it was all the same and all the more exciting. Gilgamesh and Astraea were _growing_ , and it certainly couldn’t be long. They could only get so big before it would be impossible for things to progress in any physical capacity. They must have known that, hopefully, through proximity to someone who _did_ know that.

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley muttered, another kiss to Aziraphale’s hairline right above his ear. His hair was pulled back into a braid that hung down his back, with nothing but little rings of hair too short left to frame his face.

“You’re flattering me,” Aziraphale said like he didn’t appreciate the words. He appreciated them. He wanted more of them. He swapped their hand positions to let Crowley press his palms into the bare of Aziraphale’s own skin and smiled again with the warmth.

“I’ll continue to flatter you for the rest of your days. I hope you can bear it.”

Aziraphale snorted, “please. You might sooner fragile yourself coming up with things to say.”

Crowley did not so much respond to that as he did let out a throaty noise and bury his nose into Aziraphale’s hair. He pressed his fingers into Aziraphale’s skin and marveled at the solidity. There was so little give—there was something growing. He could repeat that to himself for days, for years, and never really believe it as much as he did in that moment, feeling it under his hands. His fingertips, his palm. His skin felt alight with it, and he almost wished it was enough to feel them _moving_ , but that seemed a later thing indeed.

“Wonderful,” Crowley whispered. “Mine,” a bit deeper.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale shivered, but he certainly didn’t say a thing as Crowley’s lips ghosted over his neck, over the skin of his shoulder.

“We’re going to have a _family_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered. Something about it sent something warm down Aziraphale’s spine where it settled nice and low. “Do you still have those same plans?” he asked.

“What plans are you referring to? I have a lot of them, you know. Many, and—” Aziraphale cut off in a gasp when Crowley’s hands had wandered just high enough to cup his breasts. “Oh,” Aziraphale breathed.

“I think it’d be quite a sight; you know. To see you nurse them.”

“Well, I do think it’s a rather utilitarian thing,” Aziraphale pressed. He was trying to ignore just how _wonderfully_ Crowley knew how to move his hands, the pads of his fingers.

It hadn’t taken long after that, really, for Crowley to coax him back into bed. What a thing of touching it was, and really only that. Crowley just wanted to see, to feel, to _marvel_ over Aziraphale’s body, and he always did in just his way that Aziraphale felt thoroughly worshiped when they were through. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, even after the years, and he didn’t think he would ever get used to that sort of attention. Even if Crowley had settled nicely into being used to providing it, and he didn’t seem any less bent on providing it as Aziraphale got heavier or more tired. Crowley just got _more_ attentive, after that.

More attentive. Aziraphale had thought, once, that would have been a wonderful thing. In fact, the first time that Crowley had lifted him off his feet into a bridal hold to walk him down the stairs, Aziraphale had nearly made a fool of himself in swooning over it. Crowley didn’t have the _look_ of someone who could lift anything overly significant, especially not given whatever number Aziraphale might clock in at, if he cared to step on a scale. A good portion of it was baby weight, anyway, so even at the worst of times, he wouldn’t care to do that. It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t believe that Crowley was strong, because he’d seen the way he worked, it was just a matter of appearance. No great thing for judging, Aziraphale knew, but it didn’t stop the little tingle of excitement when Crowley had hoisted him up like he was nothing. The first few times, the excitement remained.

The fifth time, Aziraphale was starting to wish he could just sleep on the sofa instead of having to go upstairs. He was perfectly comfortable on the sofa. It was wide enough that Aziraphale could lay flat on his back and still have room to squirm and wriggle in the night—he wouldn’t fall off and hurt himself. Even if he did, the coffee table was far enough away that he wouldn’t do any major damage. He’d land on the floor, a whole two feet away. The most he’d suffer would be a bruise, and that was only if he wanted to bruise. He wouldn’t.

Then, there was, of course, the issue of alcohol. Aziraphale didn’t understand the problem, really. He was an angel carrying supernatural infants who would, no doubt, not respond to anything in the same way that humans did. Not to mention that, as authentic as his plumbing, so to say, was—it _also_ was not a human’s. If Aziraphale wanted a glass of wine, surely, he should be able to have one. The first time Crowley had said no was not so much of an issue, because Aziraphale thought it was charming. Crowley was concerned for his health, for the health of their kids, and was only acting in a way that he thought was best. It had even brought to a long month without a single bit of alcohol—but when Aziraphale had returned to it, for just one glass of wine, Crowley had said the same thing.

“You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol,” he said. He hadn’t even looked up from his phone, but somehow, he _knew_ Aziraphale had the wine out.

“I don’t think one glass of wine will matter much,” Aziraphale retorted. “It’s not as though I’m intending to get drunk. And,” which he said with a bit more force, “if I do, I can simply will it away. We’ve done it before, almost every time we drink.” It was why certain bottles of wine that they frequented more often had yet to empty, even after decades of drinking together.

“It could be bad for—”

“Fine,” was all Aziraphale said. He put the bottle away and would hear no more of it. He didn’t even return to the sofa, where Crowley was sitting and looking a bit more shocked than he had any right to. Aziraphale sat down at the table, and that was the end of it. He waved a novel into his hand and read in silence, without a drink, and was doing nothing less than pouting.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked all of five minutes later.

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale replied, and they spoke no more on the matter.

Eventually, Aziraphale got his wish. He wasn’t being carried to be every night, but that brought on its own issues, sleeping on the couch. Every time he so much as shifted, Crowley was rocketing from whatever corner of the room he was in to get whatever it was Aziraphale was trying to get. It was best for Aziraphale to rest, Crowley would say. It was better that he just let Crowley do the work. Standing and sitting constantly would tire him, and he _was_ already tired. This was a big thing, he was doing, and it was nothing in return for Crowley to literally pick up every single thing that needed to be done.

That, Aziraphale had even enjoyed for a moment. Crowley did the cooking, the cleaning, the everything. It had been wonderful, until Crowley was no longer letting him get up on his own to even grab a glass of water, of which Crowley _also_ insisted he had an amount of. Aziraphale had ended up just miracling the glass full a few times, and even _that_ seemed to earn Crowley’s scrutiny. Miracles would cause unnecessary strain on his body, and if it was something Crowley could do, Aziraphale just needed to let him do it. And fine. Aziraphale did, but he was _bored_. The telly provided absolutely no entertainment, and Aziraphale had spent exactly one hour playing puzzle games on his phone before he nearly threw it across the room. If he had, he was sure Crowley would have come running to scold him about over-exertion.

Really, Crowley was one frilly pink apron short of being a housewife on one of those old, horrid sitcoms Aziraphale had watched humans invent. The ones that were full of rude, sexist stereotypes and certainly did not project the best that humans could be to each other. It was a rude thing to think, and Aziraphale regretted thinking it a few beats after he had, but the sentiment remained. Crowley hadn’t let him do anything on his own in weeks, in a month, in months. It was _cold_ outside now, and Aziraphale was more tired than he’d ever been. And in the exhaustion, he had never more in his life wanted to get up and run laps around a park. And running was something Aziraphale despised perhaps more than Gabriel—who did run.

If Aziraphale had ever mentioned a want to run, Crowley would have done nothing less than throw a fit. Aziraphale kept it to himself. Things went on in an irksome sort of strain that only he seemed to be feeling, even if Crowley had never looked more tired. Aziraphale was _sure_ he wasn’t sleeping at night—there was no way he could be. Not with how well everything had been done. Breakfast was always ready before Aziraphale even woke up; maybe that wasn’t so difficult given the times he was waking up: later and later each day. But Crowley had always been the difficult one to roll out of bed. The fact that he was timing what time he was up to provide Aziraphale a large, warm breakfast was wonderful. Even if, at the end of the day, it was ruining them both.

Crowley was tired, and Aziraphale was irritated. The breakfasts, the lunches, and the dinners were _wonderful._ Crowley was an outstanding cook already, and with each dish he made, his skills seemed to only improve. It was everything else that was devolving at some horribly fast rate. Aziraphale was hardly eating food, anymore. He could compare it to the small bits that Crowley served himself, where in the morning he would have full links of sausage. Aziraphale’s links had been cut for him, something about the smaller chunks being better for digestion and _everything else._ Which would have made sense, but for the most part, they were eating for pleasure. Aziraphale did need a lot of it for energy, but digestion still wasn’t. Well, with angels and demons alike, it wasn’t _quite_ like it was for humans. Nothing went to waste. Surely, the size of the _chunk_ didn’t matter.

Then, the dietary restrictions. No fish, Crowley said, and Aziraphale added it to the slowly growing list of things he wished Crowley would just stop. If he’d been anyone else, anyone not named Aziraphale, he might have been able to tell Crowley how bothered he was. He might have been able to stamp his foot down and tell Crowley that this was getting ridiculous, that he was six-thousand years old—he knew how to take care of himself. The only thing standing between him and that was the fear and the understanding. The fear came from a fear of confrontation. He didn’t want to argue with Crowley any more than they had to, and hopefully they _didn_ _’t_ have to. Worse was the understanding Aziraphale had. Crowley’s _intentions_ were so pure it almost hurt.

Just like any expecting parent had a right to be, Crowley was worried. Not just worried, Crowley was _terrified_. He had no idea what children entailed, much less than he had any idea what a pregnancy entailed. He was doing things he thought were right, were helpful, all because he was concerned about Aziraphale’s condition. That was it—and if Aziraphale had ever heard someone else complain about this, he might have been the one to say they were being ungrateful. That’s what he was afraid of, being ungrateful. That he was just refusing Crowley’s gift for some feigned independence, like he was too good to be taken care of like this. This wasn’t catering to his needs, though, like he _was_ too good. This was, well.

This was the kind of care he might expect they would give Gilgamesh and Astraea, once they were born. The kind of care they would give to _infants_ , who were, by definition alone, helpless. Aziraphale wasn’t helpless, even if he was surely in a different state physically, he could still _do_ things. He was intent on doing things, even if it meant he had to go behind Crowley’s back. And he missed how happy it had been, when he’d first started showing. It had gone from Crowley holding him in front of the mirror to him wanting to do things behind his back. And it had been _so_ nice before. Aziraphale even remembered the first time they’d felt the movement, the _kicking_ , as it were. Aziraphale had been sure it wasn’t kicking, with how it had been, but they had felt it.

Aziraphale had been sitting just where he was now, on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. That was one thing Crowley insisted on that he _did_ like, for how comfortable it was. The movement had come as a shock, at first, and Aziraphale hadn’t quite known what to make of it. He was heavy enough at this point that moving was a strenuous sort of thing, at the point where Crowley had given up and let him stay on the couch. Movement of any kind was strange—strange. Like a pressure from the inside, and he stared down at his own stomach for a long moment before it had stopped. Then, immediately, another bout of _pressure_. That time, he’d pressed his hand over the spot and felt it. Like—like a _kick_. Really.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale had shouted for him. “Crowley, dear, you have to come experience this!”

Crowley had shown up in a second, terrified that something had gone wrong. However, the second he saw Aziraphale, hands over his stomach and eyes wide, he knew nothing could possibly be wrong. This was something _exciting;_ this was one of those milestones he’d read about, when the child was old enough and developed enough to explore movement, to explore the environment. There wasn’t much room to move around for them, Crowley was sure, but they were _moving_. He didn’t even have to ask, to say a word, before he pressed his palm into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“That’s—that’s them, isn’t it?” Crowley had asked.

Aziraphale nodded, “can you feel them?”

“Strong little buggers, they are,” Crowley said, but the smile on his face betrayed the harshness of the word. He was marveling at it, pressing both hands then. Another kick, another, and then a full minute of absolutely nothing. Then another minute, and Crowley pulled his hands away. He had moved to sit back on the coffee table, but all at once, Aziraphale had pulled his feet down and reached back out for Crowley.

“Dear, please, I—well. I’d like you closer, if that’s alright.”

Crowley grinned. Maybe he could have slipped over to the couch, but he dropped down to his knees, instead, between Aziraphale’s thighs where he was eye-level with the bump in Aziraphale’s belly.

“You two better behave,” Crowley muttered. “Mum’s been doing a lot of work for you, and you should appreciate it.”

“Crowley, don’t scold them. They haven’t done anything.”

“Not yet,” Crowley laughed, “but they might. Besides, they’ll know your voice. Maybe they should get to know mine.”

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale offered. “Please say something nicer, though. I don’t need them thinking they’ve done something awful—I am fine, you know. Just pregnant.”

Crowley snorted. He leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale’s stomach and whisper something Aziraphale hadn’t quite heard.

And it had been lovely. Aziraphale _missed_ it. He missed the way Crowley had looked at him, like he was something so marvelous it would be terrifying to do anything wrong, to be too far apart. Things were lovely, but perfection was something equally hard to attain as it was to hold onto. The more Crowley’s fear about the situation had grown, the more insufferable he’d become. Aziraphale understood it, he did, and that was why he wouldn’t say anything. Conversations like that were always too difficult, always had too much room for error, for a mistake critical enough that they would separate forever. Maybe Crowley would even finally take that out Aziraphale had given him—Crowley could go back to London, buy back his flat, and be happy enough on his own forever.

He wouldn’t. Aziraphale knew in his heart that Crowley would never leave, not while there was still all this stuff between them. The little things like love and adoration and care. Crowley cared about him. Even to the point where he was suffocating Aziraphale, it was still care. Aziraphale appreciated the intention, not so much the execution, and that had led him to where he was. He was planning on doing something so simple, but he had to do it behind Crowley’s back—and what a thing to do. All he wanted was some _tea_. Something soothing, herbal. Something citrus, maybe, and he did still have those green tea bags. A lovely citrus green tea, with just enough hint of orange that he wouldn’t feel so inclined to slice himself one, which would make this all the more worse than it would be.

Crowley was out in the garden, like he was every morning after breakfast, and he would be out there for another hour or two. Tea didn’t take even twenty minutes to stoop probably, so there was absolutely no way that this could go wrong. It might take twenty minutes in total, given how slow Aziraphale was moving, but that was far less than an hour. He had time. It wasn’t even behind Crowley’s back, really. It was just making himself a cup of tea without asking. A nice warm cup of tea to settle him in the cold months, that was all. Nothing _dangerous_. Nothing that could hurt him or the children. It was fine.

Aziraphale had convinced himself it would be fine, and that was how he found himself pulling off the sofa in the slowest, most calculated way he could manage. He was _tired_ , and he was pregnant. Where he hadn’t entirely been easy to see at first, it was painfully obvious now. From the size of the swell to the pain in his feet but sitting around waiting for Crowley to wait on his every whim wasn’t going to make the pain go away. It certainly wasn’t going to save his sanity. All he needed was one cup of tea, and he’d be fine until all of this was over. That, he was sure of.

He heated the water to proper temperature. He set the cup up with what appeared to be the last teabag he had of this particular flavor, which left a mental note that they would need to pick more up. Then, the bag was set, the water was poured, and he returned back to the sofa. Save for the cup of tea now waiting on the coffee table, and the fact that Aziraphale was sitting forward instead of leaning back, it was as if nothing had changed. After the proper amount of time, exact down to the second, Aziraphale removed the tea bag and set it aside on a napkin. He’d take care of it later, and hopefully, Crowley wouldn’t notice.

So, by all manner of speaking, that was the moment Aziraphale heard the front door open. He had the cup in his hand, and he wasn’t about to sacrifice the first sweet sip of tea for whatever it was Crowley had left to do in the house before he could finish up. He wasn’t due back for _at least_ forty minutes, after all. Surely, he would leave and not notice, not argue, and things would be alright. Whatever the plan was for this very particular day, in whatever God’s eye was watching, it was not in Aziraphale’s favor. He could _feel_ Crowley staring at him from the side of the sofa, teacup hovering awkwardly in midair.

“Aziraphale—”

“Please—”

“You _can_ _’t_ be drinking tea—caffeine isn’t good—”

“Crowley, _please_ , it’s not a big deal—”

But that had been the end of it, before it had even begun. Crowley had reached for the teacup, sure that Aziraphale wasn’t going to listen to him, and Aziraphale had tried in all the calmness he could muster to keep the cup away from Crowley. Crowley won the reach game, having more mobility and length in general, but they both lost as quickly as Crowley had won. The tea. It was the end of it, just like that, without having really even begun. It splashed, it spilled, and the cup clattered to the ground before Crowley could even register what happened.

“Aziraphale—”

“No!” Aziraphale shouted. “Shut up! Crowley! I can’t— _do this_ , anymore!” He was covered in it, the tea. The sofa was wet, the afghan, the floor. But more importantly, Aziraphale had been wearing _white_. Nothing short of a miracle would save it from a stain, now, and that only counted for his ruined clothing. The tea had splashed into his _hair._ Aziraphale was crying, and he hadn’t even realized the tears were there until he heard himself make an undignified sniff. More like a snort. He was _covered_ in tea. The sofa be damned, he couldn’t even care for the afghan. Crowley had spilled his _entire_ cup of tea on him.

“That was my last bit of tea, that cup, and you—and you can’t just leave me alone! I’m fine, I’m _fine—_ ” Aziraphale pulled himself up in as much angry haste as he could manage. “Why can’t you just leave me alone!? You fret and you meddle—you won’t let me drink anything but water, I can’t eat my own food. I’m—I’m fed up, Crowley! I’m tired of it! You’re treating me like a _child_ , and I can’t—I know how to take care of myself!”

Crowley looked stunned. He just stood there, arms dangling uselessly at his sides, and stared.

“I’m pregnant, yes, but you’re treating me like I haven’t ever known how to do any of these things! I can’t just sit on this couch all day and do nothing—it’s driving me mad! And you’ve—you’ve gone and spilled my last cup of tea! One cup of tea isn’t going to harm me, nor the children, and I just—leave me alone! Please, _please_ , I’m begging, I can’t handle this.” Aziraphale was already rounding the couch, walking off towards the stairs.

This time, Aziraphale was determined to make it _up_ the stairs. He hadn’t gone to the bedroom in what felt like decades, but it had only been two months. Four months total of this. Ten months of the whole thing. Past the normal time for a human, and Aziraphale was ready to lose his mind. He couldn’t wait for this to be over, for this to be _done._ Somehow, the first step to that felt like getting back up the stairs for the first time in two months. On his own, without Crowley’s help. He didn’t need Crowley’s help. He didn’t need Crowley fawning all over him like he was some sort of helpless child without a mind for his own care and safety. He didn’t need—

No. He did need Crowley. He needed Crowley to give him _space_ , but he needed Crowley to stay with him. Crowley wasn’t fickle enough to leave just for an outburst. He’d never left before, after all. He never went far, either, and that proved to be more helpful than it was harmful. Even if he was smothering. His closeness meant _everything._

Aziraphale had made it exactly halfway up the stairs before a sudden pain jolted through his body, from his toes to the very tip of his skull, where it felt like his whole body would shatter in a matter of seconds—seconds, and he would be gone. The pain radiated out to his fingertips, to his spine, everywhere, and it was halfway up the stairs that Aziraphale grappled onto the handrail to keep himself up. Even if it hurt, it _hurt_ , to hold himself up. His entire body was suddenly on fire, burning with the pain that just seemed to never stop, to never end, and to come from every nerve in his body. The prickling on the inside of his skin, on the outside, a burning sort of Hell that he never thought he’d find himself in. Even his eyes were in pain, and keeping them open, the sudden _sweat,_ was proving more of a chore than he needed.

Crowley’s name never left his lips. It didn’t have to. Crowley was _there_. Crowley grabbed him, kept him from tumbling down the rest of the stairs, and hoisted him up. Even for the yelling, the—the whatever had just happened, Crowley was there to grab Aziraphale and hold him close. The second they were stable in the hallway of the second floor, Crowley held Aziraphale as close as he could manage, curled up with his head pressed into his neck. Aziraphale’s breath was like fire, burning into his skin. There was a painful quality to it, but Crowley didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t.

“Aziraphale—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“We can talk later,” Crowley soothed. “We need to get you to bed. Can you stand?”

Aziraphale whimpered, shook his head, but tried anyway. Even with the way his knees wobbled, with Crowley supporting him, he stood. Within seconds, the tea was gone, the stains, and with it went the rage. All of it was replaced with a horrid pain in Aziraphale’s spine, and even lying in the plushness of _their_ bed, again, for the first time, didn’t seem to help him. All there was to feel was the constant moving, the manhandling, as Crowley wrestled him into something more appropriate for sleep.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale tried again, but Crowley just grabbed his hand and held it close to his own chest.

“ _Rest_ ,” Crowley said, with an urgency that Aziraphale hadn’t heard before. That was fear, there, in his voice. It was the fear of watching Aziraphale’s outburst, and then the moment of nearly watching him fall down the stairs. He would have been fine, most likely, but Crowley knew better that human bodies had died from less. Discorporation at this point would spell _disaster_ , for all of them. It couldn’t happen. In Crowley’s eyes was the play in which Aziraphale hadn’t managed to catch himself, hadn’t managed to hold out through the pain in the time it took Crowley to reach him, and the resounding consequence in which he’d discorporated and taken their children with him.

For all of that, Aziraphale was sure that this time, when Crowley told him to rest, he would. He did. He let his eyes dip close, and eventually felt the subtle movement of Crowley laying his hand back down on the bed. Through the hours, Aziraphale woke up several times—always in pain, always sweating, and Crowley was always there. He was either there with a wet towel, dabbing at Aziraphale’s skin, or he was pacing nervously at the end of the bed. Somewhere between it, he’d changed shirts. He’d changed clothes twice, and eventually landed in his pajama set. Aziraphale was sure, with that, that it was nearing the end of the day. That, or Crowley just really hadn’t a clue of what to do with himself.

When Crowley was still in his pajamas through three wakes, Aziraphale figured something was _truly_ wrong. He just needed to muster enough strength to truly wake up, to call out for Crowley. He wanted to—he wanted to apologize, to tell Crowley that there was no better place for him to be than in bed, with his arms around Aziraphale so he could feel _safe._ He wanted to feel safe, Aziraphale did. He missed the feeling. The pain was still a growing thing, and through the fog of his eyes, the pain, it had taken him a moment to realize Crowley was on the phone.

The phone call lasted for a minute, then Crowley snorted and tossed his phone onto the dresser. That was when Aziraphale mustered up what courage he had, what strength he could find through the searing pain in his abdomen—he had to call for Crowley. He had to make this right before it was too late, because now. Now, Aziraphale was having thoughts entirely unrelated to the children, but rather their apology. They had apologized once, for their strain, and never quite specified what they meant. They would take a toll on him, they’d said, and perhaps they meant a bell.

“Crowley—”

Crowley’s head jerked, and he all but dashed to Aziraphale’s side. “Aziraphale—Heavens, your awake. I was terrified, it’s been hours—”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and when Crowley tried to shush him, Aziraphale shook his head. “I need to apologize, I was—I was dreadful to you. I shouldn’t have shouted like that, I should’ve—I should have brought it up sooner, that what you were doing was _smothering_ me, but I was afraid—”

“I’m not exactly approachable. I wasn’t listening,” Crowley’s voice was low. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale couldn’t form the words, not properly. All he did was tug Crowley down so he could wrap his arms about his neck and kiss him. That was enough, for the moment, to just kiss Crowley. Aziraphale’s hold was just a bit too restrictive, and Crowley’s kiss was just a bit too desperate, but it was alright. It was fine. It was as perfect as it could be, for the moment. When Crowley pulled back, he situated himself on the edge of the bed, so Aziraphale didn’t have to stop the touching. The touching was comforting, even if all he could do at a distance was keep Crowley’s hand over his breast where he could stroke at his knuckles.

“I was terrified,” Crowley said. “When I saw you fall, I thought you were done for.”

“I—I understand. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley assured. “I think something is happening. I mean, it’s been ten months. _Something_ has to happen, right? They can’t stay in there forever,” like an afterthought joke to mask the fear.

“Is that why you were on the phone?”

Crowley nodded, “I, well. I called Anathema. I didn’t know what else to do. She’ll be here tomorrow, and hopefully nothing goes horridly wrong until then. You’ve _never_ been like this before, and, well, obviously—” Obviously. “I’m nervous.”

Aziraphale smiled something fond. It was something powerful that Crowley could admit that, the nervousness. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t already know, given the way he’d been acting over these months. To hear him admit it was something entirely different, something more special. Crowley trusted him with it, to know that he was nervous about the whole situation. Crowley had every right to be nervous about watching Aziraphale collapse, but it was more than just that. It was about everything, the whole realm of uncertainty that they were swimming in.

“Do you think it’s time?” Aziraphale asked.

“I hope so,” Crowley admitted, quietly, like he was afraid someone would hear. “We’ve been left alone for this long, but I admit, I’m not sure what comes next.”

“Children come next,” Aziraphale supplied like it was that easy. It wouldn’t be that easy, and they both knew that. They didn’t have a single clue of how to raise even normal children, and Gilgamesh and Astraea wouldn’t _be_ normal children. They would be something else, something strange and different and supernatural.

“A lot worse could be following,” Crowley warned, and really, Aziraphale knew that. Aziraphale knew that more than either of them, and it set deep in his stomach—the more he thought about it. He was terrified for it, really. Not so much what was coming next, but the fact that Crowley may have to face it alone.

Anathema came. She refused everything she was offered in turn for going straight up the stairs to take a look at Aziraphale. Even without a single, real lick of medical experience, she knew something was wrong. Medicine wouldn’t help Aziraphale, though. Not in the way that he needed help. She hadn’t made it farther into the room than a few steps, and that was all she needed to take to know that _no one_ would be able to help Aziraphale, because nothing was _wrong_. He was a mess from form to aura, and what had once been blue skies and something gentle was a torrent wave, now, in what Anathema could see a rain down of fire, of water, and everything in between. It rested somewhere between holy and damned, and she wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t both.

Crowley joined her a moment later, when he realized she’d just stopped before even approaching the bed. He’d made sure Aziraphale was showered and decent, so it wasn’t as though she had any reason not to approach. But. He realized all at once that it wasn’t a refusal to approach that had stopped her where she was, writing her hands together in something close to fear. Fear, again, and always fear with humans. Crowley was quickly getting fed up with it, but he couldn’t expect anything else. Humans were certainly more fragile than angels and demons, and to drag Anathema into this was a cruel thing of him to do. There was nobody else who could help. Nobody else understood in quite the same way.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Anathema nodded, “I think, anyway. Nothing that I can do to fix it.”

“What do you mean.”

“Well, I don’t know this for sure. I don’t know much about supernatural _birth_ after all,” which she said giving Crowley a look from the corner of her eye. He knew she wasn’t happy about any of this, even if she played otherwise, and she was going to make sure he knew. He didn’t blame her. She had a peaceful life, and no doubt, she wanted to keep it. Especially with what she’d already been through. Deciding to burn that book meant that she was ready to live her own life, and all things otherworldly were not involved.

“But,” she continued, “I think it’s about to happen.”

“You do?”

“Well, maybe? It could happen tomorrow. It could take another month, really. But I can’t see three distinct auras, and there should be. Whatever is happening, it _is_ happening.”

“Right,” Crowley said, dumbly.

“Could be a week, could be a month. There’s really no way to tell, but—well. What is your plan? Do you know what you’re going to do for this?”

Crowley shook his head, “not a clue.”

Anathema stiffened and mulled over her options once more. The smart thing to do would be to tell Crowley good luck and leave. There was nothing she could do, and she needed to get home to work on her latest project. It was more important than this, even if she couldn’t quite be bothered to remember what it was in that instant. Something about this was drawing her in. She’d sworn it off, all of it. She would keep to herself, do the things she did with her books and her witch training, but she would do it on her own terms, in her own time. This was doing things on Crowley and Aziraphale’s terms, in Aziraphale’s time. And still, she was mulling it over with a very pointed direction in her head.

“I don’t really think this birth is going to happen overnight, if you want my real opinion,” she said. “Even if she—he? He,” she decided when Crowley nodded, “went into labor tomorrow, I don’t think anything would happen immediately.”

“If labor even happens,” Crowley snorted. “Maybe they’ll just poof into existence. Two kids, right there,” he folded his arms.

“You’ve got the set up for it,” Anathema agreed. There were two cribs in the corner, put together and outfitted with sheets and mattresses already. Aziraphale had liked the idea of a nursery, and maybe they would turn one of the other rooms _into_ one, but that would be down the line. In infancy, Crowley figured it would be better to have them close. It meant there wouldn’t be running around at two in the morning when they children inevitably cried each other awake.

“Still, whatever happens, I’m not thinking it’ll be pretty. You might need help,” Anathema continued. Crowley could _smell_ her offer before she even made it. “Especially if there is labor and birth. Could be messy. I figure you don’t want to go to an actual hospital.”

“Probably not, might get uncomfortable. I can figure out the rest later, but I don’t want to risk having to miracle off memories. That gets to be complicated.”

Anathema nodded. “Well. Call me. I’ll bring Newton, and we’ll help the best we can. On the condition, of course, that I get to be the godmother.”

“Godmother—”

“Who else would you leave them two if something happened? _Nobody_ else is going to understand them. I may not be _good_ at it, but I have more knowledge than anyone you know.”

Crowley grumbled something to himself. The truth was they didn’t know anyone. At all. He hadn’t even thought so far ahead as to say godparents, but Anathema had _offered_. He couldn’t rightfully refuse, not when it was a contingency. Aziraphale wouldn’t very well refuse either. They hadn’t really known Anathema or Newton long or well, but Aziraphale seemed to like them both. Maybe, under any other circumstance, they would have discussed this together before agreeing to Anathema’s offer, but Crowley figured he had enough leeway in their arrangement to make a decision himself.

“Deal,” he said, sticking out his hand. Anathema shook it, and she smiled.

“I want to meet them, these kids,” she admitted. “I know it’s been off and on, but I feel a bit invested now.”

“I _am_ invested,” Crowley mused. He better be, given his position in this as the father.

“I’m sure you know how to take care of things from here, so as long as nothing goes significantly downhill. Just, you know. Call me when the kids happen.”

Crowley agreed, and he didn’t bother to walk Anathema to the door. She didn’t want him too, and she knew where it was. It was more important for Crowley to stay where he could tend to Aziraphale, who was all but helpless at this point. He hadn’t done more than sleep, eat, and drink since Crowley had hauled him into the bed. With passing _minutes,_ sometimes, he looked worse and worse. Crowley kept his nervousness to himself, this time, when he stepped around the bed to take a seat.

Aziraphale was sweating, half asleep, and struggling even to turn his head to look at Crowley. And Crowley ached for him, truly. He looked miserable. He sounded miserable. He must have felt miserable. There wasn’t a thing Crowley could do for him but make sure he was comfortable, that he didn’t sweat through his night wear or the sheets, that he had enough food and water to maintain energy. Everything else was up to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale alone. And he would be alone in it for days, weeks, a month—however long this would take. One thing was sure, though. One thing they were all sure of.

These were the final moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 wowie what is next to come? 𓆏  
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last fic I posted, I was just feeling babies--ya know?? So, I wrote Considerate Omens. Here is the new chapter!! 
> 
> Thanks so much to the people who have offered support through comments. I'm doing quite well now, and the support means a lot <3 Thank you guys. Please enjoy!

Aziraphale hadn’t moved in days. Weeks, even. The turn of the year was just around the corner, and Aziraphale hadn’t moved from the bed once. Crowley had taken it upon himself to care for the house and the garden, but each afternoon, he returned to their bedroom to look after Aziraphale. Where Aziraphale had found it annoying, painful, even, he now found it a thankful sort of gift. Crowley would bring him food, water, and occasionally—a bucket. Morning sickness was a human thing, really. Something that not even all pregnant humans went through—it was just one of those side effects that may or may not exist, could come and go. Aziraphale had rather thought himself above something so heinous as vomiting after every meal, but there he was.

January of the new year would ring in in three days, and Aziraphale was hunched over a bucket with blankets hoarded around him, emptying the contents of his stomach once more. He couldn’t keep anything down, and with the rate at which he had grown, he _needed_ to be able to keep something down. The vomit had been one thing, but Aziraphale was close to illness. He was just about as ill as any angel could get without seriously considering whether or not they’d lost their supernatural status. Aziraphale’s body fluctuated between warm and hot; they had spent more miracles on laundry soap in the month of December than they ever had on anything, ever. Aziraphale insisted that the blankets themselves could just be cleaned, but Crowley had always retorted that laundry gave him something to do.

When he wasn’t doing laundry, he was pacing about in the living room, wondering what would happen. He couldn’t leave the house without some veritable sort of panic that Aziraphale would go into labor without him. Every piece of food, every drop of liquid—all of it was a miracle, now. It was the only way Crowley could keep himself under control. Since Aziraphale had found himself bedridden, Crowley had gone to sleep only once. It had been the most dreadful experience of his life, and he remembered just why he’d been sleeping less. It wasn’t just for Aziraphale’s sake, who, in between fits of sleeping, needed someone there to take care of just about everything. Crowley was happy, more than, to do that. It was for his own sake, because the nightmares started and stopped and started again.

This one had been a horrific recreation of his Fall, but it hadn’t been him Falling this time. Crowley was one to believe that dreams meant nothing, especially when he did not recognize the visage in his dream. A girl whose wings had burned away already, plummeting down into a stream of long nothingness. But the dream had left such a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Crowley nearly vomited when he woke up, and he’d gone straight to the bedroom to check on Aziraphale. As if the dream had meant to say that something terrible had happened—only nothing had. Aziraphale had been asleep, a half-eaten sandwich left on its plate, on the bed. Everything had been right in order, but Crowley had woken Aziraphale up anyway. Had checked to ensure he was okay. Then, Crowley had sworn off sleeping until the children were born.

At that point, sleeping wouldn’t be his choice, so even if the swear had died off—Crowley still may find himself not sleeping. He hoped for it, anyway, that two supernatural babies would be the worst babies in existence, and neither of them would know the meaning of sleep for the next year. They didn’t need to sleep, so it didn’t matter if they did. Even if Crowley’s bones seemed to long for it; he’d been doing nonstop activity to keep himself engaged, distracted. One moment of silence plagued his mind with horrid thoughts, and he was right to find those in himself. December had been cold, colder than necessary—and wet. Aziraphale was already sick, Crowley was already tired, and everything had still found a way to get worse.

With three days left until the turn of the year, there was nothing left for Crowley to do but sit on the side of the bed. The garden was only growing through the frost because that’s what Crowley wanted—he _needed_ the garden around, to give himself something to do. Without it, he would surely have gone mad. But even the garden needed a rest, like a sort of sign that Crowley needed one as well. He couldn’t find it in him, however. A rest. A moment of sleep. He had food to prepare, he had blankets to wash, pillows to air out. The entire basement needed dusting for how little time they’d spent down there. The dishes needed doing, the indoor plants needed watering—they were still growing just fine. The house was a pleasantly warm temperature that kept Crowley happy. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice the temperature, his own body rejecting the reality around it. Even covered in blankets, he was still shivering.

“C-C-Crowley, please,” Aziraphale pleaded. “You m-must _do_ something.”

“Can’t,” he replied, matter-of-factly. There was nothing left for him to do that didn’t involve fretting about like a chicken, and he’d had quite enough of that.

“Y-you could at _least_ sl-sl-sleep,” Aziraphale pressed again.

“Can’t do that either,” Crowley admitted. He shifted on the bed, folding up one knee as he moved to sit sideways, to face Aziraphale and run his hand down his cheek. The contrast was terrifying—Aziraphale was shivering, but his skin was on fire. He was sweating, and against his cheek, Crowley’s hand felt _cold._

“Is—is it the n-nightmares?” Aziraphale asked.

“Angel, hush. You need to rest. Don’t worry about me.”

“H-how can I n-n-not? You s-s-seem a mise-miserable sort, and I—” Aziraphale cut off when a sudden shiver overtook his body. Crowley did the only thing that he could think to do, which was promptly remove himself from the bed and all but force Aziraphale to lay down into the pillows.

“Sitting is taking too much out of you.”

“It’s r-r-ridiculous,” Aziraphale complained. He softened a moment after, letting his eyes close. It took only a minute after that for Aziraphale’s eyelids to flutter, for him to fall completely and sound asleep.

All Crowley could do was sigh. There was an armchair in the bedroom, one that had come from Aziraphale’s bookshop when they moved. Originally, it had a place in the living room, but after Aziraphale had been bedridden, Crowley brought it to the room. He pulled it up to the side of the bed and sat down in it, curled up in such a way that he could get his feet off the ground and drape a blanket over his knees. Even in the old days when he slept for years at a time, Crowley had never truly felt _tired_ , and he even dared to think he still didn’t feel tired. This was a bone-deep exhaustion that spread out from his fingertips to his toes and left him feeling drained, a shadow of himself. Even laid back into the comfortable, familiar, plush of the armchair, Crowley didn’t fall asleep.

He reached out to take Aziraphale’s hand, instead, and set a comforting, circular rub over his knuckles. It was all he could think to do, really, with the fear rising up like bile in the back of his throat. This was becoming more and more terrifying as the minutes passed on. Reasonably, Crowley had known that all his reading on human pregnancies would amount to nothing. Aziraphale wasn’t a human. Maybe they had fucked like humans, conceived like humans, _looked_ like humans, but they were not, by any stretch of the imagination, humans. Aziraphale’s pregnancy would never be like a human’s, but Crowley had been so hopefully. He had truly, really believed that none of this had to mean that Aziraphale’s pregnancy would be _dangerous_.

Even where he was, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles and staring at him, Crowley still believed this didn’t have to be dangerous. Aziraphale was just having a hard time of it, that was all. He hadn’t been as well prepared as they’d thought—after all, neither of them had ever been pregnant before. Crowley was sure no demon or angel alive had ever been. This was new. This was something nobody could have foreseen, because it’d just never been done. Pure and simple. Aziraphale was alright, just tired, and soon it would all be over. They would have two beautiful children and never think of this again.

The darkness behind Crowley’s eyelids said something different. When his dream started, he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Still did not realize that he _was_ asleep, because he was walking through the Gates of Heaven again and smiling. Like they’d gone and quite welcomed him back, or maybe he’d never Fallen at all. Everything was just as he remembered, sleek and professional. Quaint, sparse—Crowley had always liked it sparse. He liked when things were neatly put away, all in their exact places. Order was proper and calming, and it did not make him feel as though everything had Fallen apart.

Everything around him looked and felt familiar, warm. When he passed by the globe, there was no reason to fear touching it. He wouldn’t go zooming off—Heaven was his _home_. This was where he stayed, where he desired. He knew it all by heart, still, and walked through the rooms and the hallways and the stairs until he had reached the top. There had been a time where Crowley hadn’t known an inch of Heaven outside of the top. The top was where he’d been born, where he’d been created alongside those much similar. They had been gifted sorts, with voices unheard and songs untold. Positively perfect, he’d remembered. God had said it Herself, when she looked at him the first time.

“Your name is—” She said, but Crowley couldn’t hear his name anymore.

He had smiled all the same and held Her hands when She reached for him. She had given him his name and smiled just the same. All of it was for love and grace, for things Crowley couldn’t feel in his veins any longer. But still, he could see the Throne. He could find his place around it where he used to sing songs and praises, when he had _wings_ that were beautiful and not covered in soot, not charred and black. It had been a time where snakes were not a visage of evil but of Holiness and God. A time when Crowley was not who he was, not anymore.

In fact, really. He hadn’t been anyone before his new name. He’d been exactly what God wanted him to be and nothing more. Nothing less, either, not until She’d first let him venture down the stairs to meet the other angels. In hindsight, that had been Crowley’s first step downward, on his way towards Hell—

Crowley jolted awake suddenly, the sound of retching off in the distance. The _distance_. He scrambled out of the chair as quickly as he could, even if he knew it would be too late to do a damn thing about it. He’d fallen asleep—a fool! A fool was what he was, and he chastised himself for letting this happen when he pushed through the bathroom door. Aziraphale was lying hunched, crouched over the floor. He hadn’t even made it to the toilet, and Crowley felt his heart seize up. A normal person would have cleaned the mess, would have done anything other than what Crowley did. Crowley sat on the closet clean space he could find and yanked Aziraphale into his arms, the mess be damned.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale had gone straight to tell him everything he already knew. He was a mess; there was still vomit on his chin, over his clothes, and certainly all over the floor, but Crowley didn’t _care_. He cradled Aziraphale in his arms and stroked through his hair.

“I’m so sorry, angel,” Crowley whispered. “I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.”

“I tried to wake you,” Aziraphale said, and his voice sounded normal again, if not hoarse. He wasn’t shivering. “I _tried_ , but you didn’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said again, holding Aziraphale tighter still.

“You were having a nightmare.”

Crowley just nodded—it wasn’t a true nightmare. Just a memory. But they were all the same to him: just putrid reminders of where he’d come from, what he’d done wrong, and how he’d lost it all forever. Forever was a long time, but he would face it with Aziraphale at his side, with their new family.

They sat there for a long, long moment while Aziraphale shuddered through whatever illness had plagued him. He’d gone from freezing to hot, back to mildly cold, and still—all he could do was press his face into Crowley’s chest and close his eyes. That was how they stayed, and Crowley leaned his head back into the cabinet beneath the sink. He had one hand in Aziraphale’s hair, the other playing little shapes over the small of his back. Anything to keep him calm, for the moment, because it was all that he could do for Aziraphale.

Once Aziraphale mentioned it, they moved. Crowley had hoisted him up into the air and walked him back to the bed. Then, when Crowley went to strip off the soiled nightshirt, Aziraphale grabbed his wrist and shook his head. Crowley went to argue, went to remind Aziraphale that this was the one selfish thing he would allow himself. Laundry kept him grounded, kept his head from drifting too far off to worry and to think. The look on Aziraphale’s face killed any argument Crowley might have had, and Crowley dropped his hands away.

“We need to talk,” Aziraphale croaked.

Crowley said nothing. He sat down on the edge of the bed and helped ensure Aziraphale could be comfortable. Even like this, and Crowley was rather a fool for thinking so, Aziraphale was beautiful. He’d gotten used to Aziraphale’s long ringlets, the new curve and shape of his body. Maybe he wouldn’t stay this way forever, but Crowley would certainly not mind if this was something they visited again. He’d obliged the miracle, the shifting, and now all he could do was look. Like he needed this in his memory forever—the pure swell of Aziraphale. His breasts had grown plumper, and his stomach was round and firm. Gilgamesh and Astraea didn’t kick much anymore. In fact, the world had all but gone still.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale started, and it cut off immediately when his voice cracked. He gripped his hands around Crowley’s as hard as he could manage, and Crowley made sure not to flinch. Aziraphale was strong, and he knew that. If he needed to squeeze hard enough to hurt, then it must have hurt him too. Somewhere, Aziraphale had to be in pain. All Crowley could do was shift a little closer.

“What is it, angel? Anything you need to tell me; you know I’ll listen.”

“What if it isn’t good news?”

“I signed up for all of you,” Crowley said, drifting his hand until he could cup Aziraphale’s jaw. “The good, the bad, and whatever comes next.” He had wanted to scream, shout, how they didn’t need any bad news right now. Bad news could be disastrous, because they were in such a finicky little place right now. Bad news would leave Crowley spiraling, crumbled into a heap of what ifs and horrid things. He didn’t need that. Aziraphale didn’t need that. They needed to get through this, together, because that’s the only way Crowley had planned to see it through. He knew better, though, and said none of it.

“I still think I would have liked to get married,” Aziraphale said, a bit wistfully. It wasn’t his news, and Crowley could tell. It sounded so final, finite, like the dying of a dream. It was all Crowley could do to keep his hands from shaking.

“If that’s what you like,” Crowley tried. “I’ll plan something for you, just you see. I hadn’t thought much about it, but if you want to get married, angel—we’ll get married.”

Aziraphale might have tried to laugh. “Romantic,” he said, though it came out in more a whisper.

“The real proposal will be so romantic, you’ll be begging to marry me on the spot,” Crowley said. Quietly. And a voice too loud would shatter them both.

There was silence for a long moment while Aziraphale only breathed. His eyes looked gone, elsewhere; they looked right at Crowley, yet somehow stared right through him to the wall behind. The wallpaper with its leaves and ivy imprints. Aziraphale had wanted the wallpaper so badly that Crowley had made it for him, he remembered. He’d covered the whole house in it, because Aziraphale wanted the cottage to be their garden. Crowley had turned it into one or tried. He’d tried so hard, and now, all he could do was grip Aziraphale’s hands in his own and wait.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, quiet, and trailed off at the end. His lips twitched a semblance of a smile, but he was too tired for it. “I told you once, didn’t I? How I saw them, how they spoke to me?”

Crowley nodded, “never the details, but you told me. I remember bits.”

Aziraphale had told the details, but he wanted to tell them again. Crowley would let him tell the story as many times as he needed to. “They apologized for the toll they would take,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley squeezed his hand harder.

“I was prepared for some of it, but I’m not so sure anymore. They spoke in—a strange unison, like they were saying different things int he same words. I didn’t understand,” then, Aziraphale let out a quiet chuckle. “For as clever as I am—you’ve always said—and I couldn’t understand my own children.”

“It’s alright, angel. Everyone gets a bit out of sorts, nothing to be ashamed of,” Crowley smiled. Like this was the bad news. Like Aziraphale really was just ashamed of his inability to understand whatever strange riddle they had spewed him.

“I think I understand now,” Aziraphale said. “I think I know what they meant, and that’s why you have to promise me something.”

“Anything, Aziraphale.”

“If I don’t make it out of this—” Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, my dear—if I don’t _survive_ this,” and there were tears welling up in his eyes. His hands were shaking, his body trembling. Crowley held on as tight as he could manage. “ _Please_ don’t resent them. Take _care_ of them. They didn’t—this isn’t their fault. You have to—” his voice caught in his throat, and he pressed his eyes tightly closed. “You have to move on—”

Crowley collapsed forward into Aziraphale, his hands around Aziraphale’s face, their foreheads pressed together. “You can’t mean that,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale was crying, now, tears dreaming down his cheeks and over Crowley’s fingers. “You _can_ _’t_ mean that.”

It wasn’t what he should have said, and Crowley knew that. He should have made the promise. He should have sworn up and down, to Heaven and Hell, whoever would listen—that he would move on. He would never resent Gilgamesh or Astraea; he would love them, care for them, and see that they grew up to be the best little half angel-half demon things they could be. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t promise that. The whole thing had already been planned, and the plan _included_ they have Aziraphale around.

“You’re supposed to teach them to read,” Crowley said, and he hadn’t realized he was crying until he heard the sound of his voice. “You’re supposed to teach them to cook and to care for themselves—how to appreciate the finer things, and—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale squeezed his hands, “ _please_. I need you to promise me this, I _need_ it.”

“You were so excited about this!” Crowley even raised his voice, but it cracked, and he cried a bit harder. “You wanted to have them, you wanted to nurse them, you wanted— _with me_? And—to get married,” Crowley was blubbering. He couldn’t fathom a future unlike his plan. He’d been counting on it, hoping on it. It’d been all he’d looked forward to since the first day Aziraphale told him it’s what he wanted. _A child_. Somehow, they’d been blessed with _two_.

“Crowley…”

“It’s not _fair_ ,” Crowley dropped his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. A beat of silence, and then, “I promise.” Quiet, feeble. A promise Crowley didn’t want to make and didn’t think he could keep, but Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley anyway.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered.

Somewhere between them was a bit of warmth that didn’t belong, but neither of them noticed it.

Aziraphale only grew more tired and more exhausted. What happened promptly in the evening on the thirty-first of December was _pain_ , and Crowley hadn’t been prepared for that at all. He should have been, in hindsight. He’d read all the books, and _labor_ always started with pain. But when he heard Aziraphale cry out, Crowley didn’t even bother running. He snapped his fingers and appeared int he doorway, rushing to Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale was hunched over, one hand propping him up and the other over his stomach, and there were tears brimming up in his eyes. Crowley wasn’t even sure he should _touch_ him.

“Aziraphale—”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale gasped. “It—oh, it _hurts_ , I—”

“Lay back, lay back,” Crowley urged, but another jolt of pain shot through him, and he groaned. In hindsight, Crowley didn’t connect the dots because human labor tended not to come all at once. It was a slow process, often. Contracts eased together, closer, harder. Aziraphale’s came all at once, immediately, and he was crying before Crowley had even stepped away to fumble with his phone.

“Crowley—Crowley, _please_ don’t go,” Aziraphale cried.

“I’m— _fuck_ ,” Crowley hissed. “I have to call Anathema—”

“Crowley!”

Crowley wedged his phone between his cheek and his shoulder on his way back to the bed. He sat down promptly beside Aziraphale and let their hands wrap together; Aziraphale _squeezed_ , gasped, and found it difficult to catch his breath. Every nerve in his body lit on fire, all at once, and he could feel every contraction of his muscles. He hadn’t been expecting the pain, not personally. He knew about it, and it had been one of those things he thought God had been rather cruel for allowing. Pain during childbirth seemed unnecessary, and now that Aziraphale was to experience it, he was _crying_. It felt like fire, like every single muscle had clenched up all at once where they meant to crack his bones.

Crowley rubbed his back, shushed him, and had the quickest phone call he’d ever had. He hadn’t even _said_ anything before Anathema relayed she would be there as soon as she could. She had heard Aziraphale gasping and crying through the phone receiver, and Crowley didn’t have the decency to hide his wince. He deposited his phone to the nightstand before shifting all of his attention to Aziraphale. The first effort was to get him to breathe, because he wasn’t. Aziraphale was gasping uselessly for air with his eyes blown wide. On top of the pain, he was about to _panic._

“Breathe, angel,” Crowley urged. “Listen to my voice, look at me. Just breathe, okay? Okay,” Crowley hushed him, rubbing his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. He hadn’t blinked once since this started, and it somehow made it easier for Aziraphale to stare at him, to follow the rise and fall of his chest. Even when his breath hitched, Aziraphale kept trying to copy the movement. Calming down was imperative; there was no reason for him to be panicking. It was just the biggest event in his life—

“ _Crowley_ , I think they’re coming—” Aziraphale gasped.

“Can’t you just hold on—I have no idea what to do—Anathema—”

“No! I can’t—I can’t just _hold them in—_ what on Earth are you going on about?!” Aziraphale snapped all of the sudden, and Crowley just sat there with his eyes wide. There was no time for him to panic, either. If one of them was going to panic, Aziraphale was going to get that privilege. Crowley had to do everything else. He had to think logically, quickly, and he’d never grabbed for his phone faster.

He should have planned for this better, really, but he’d spent so much time taking care of Aziraphale, he hadn’t planned for the actual birth. He didn’t know what they needed, and honestly, he didn’t even know if they needed _anything_. It _seemed_ like Aziraphale would actually have to go through the birth, but that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t turn magic. Crowley had to operate under the assumption that this would be a real birth, and that’s how he started his research. Paying more attention to his phone than Aziraphale hurt a bit more than it needed to, but Aziraphale physically couldn’t go anywhere. He had to lay there through the pain, and while Crowley searched, he prayed that Anathema would get their sooner.

By the time the doorbell rang, Crowley had gathered towels and hot water. Then the doorbell had rang, and he left everything in the bedroom to go down and answer it. Anathema was standing on the other side; she had a bag and a very, very determined look on her face. Behind her, looking more nervous than he had any right to look, was Newton. He wrung his hands together and stepped carefully when Crowley invited them in. Even from the living room, they could all _hear_ Aziraphale’s cries. Crowley had been trying as hard as possible to ignore them, but it was getting harder with every passing minute.

“How is he?” Anathema asked.

“I have no idea—do I look like I have any idea? I don’t even know what we need to do this, and—”

“Alright, alright,” Anathema held up her hand. “It’s fine. I don’t need any help, but it’d be sure appreciated. Are you going to be able to help?”

Crowley stopped for a minute, breathed, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help. I _want_ to.” He needed help at this point, too.

“Alright, so,” she gestured up the stairs, “shall we go?”

Newton and Crowley followed Anathema up the stairs; she looked on a mission, and the closed door didn’t stop her from pushing her way right in. Aziraphale looked rather shocked to see her, and Newton, but he didn’t say anything in lieu for crying out again. She didn’t waste a single bit of time, after that, and Crowley realized all at once that she’d come prepared for a real, true, home birth. She had something herbal that she thrust off at Newton and told him to prepare, and then she turned to Crowley. She had a _list_ of demands for him, and that’s what they were. Demands. Crowley was willing to follow them without a single sarcastic quip, because this was really a matter of life or death—if Aziraphale’s promise had any merit.

And, it might. Aziraphale was crying, _shouting_ with the pain he was in. Even through Anathema’s demeanor, she was nervous. She knew the theory behind it all, but it wasn’t as if she made a life out of delivering babies. She wasn’t a nurse; she wasn’t a midwife—she was just the best hope they had. She knew well enough what they were, and what they were prevented them from going to a hospital, preventing them from inviting _any_ other humans into this space. It was Anathema and her theory, Newton and his help, and Crowley and his worry. That was all they were in the face of the strangest experience Anathema had ever been involved in, and really—she wished they hadn’t burned the damn book.

It was nothing short of a struggle to get Aziraphale into a position where he would stop trying to curl up on his side. Anathema had been the first to get him to stop, but it was fine at first. He was under so many blankets, and that certainly wasn’t going to work. She had just enough time to as Crowley if he had any idea _at all_ how babies were born before Crowley grumbled something under his breath and got to work. Apparently, making them was easier and more fun than the after part, and Crowley wasn’t having the time of his life. Neither was Aziraphale. He’d been shifted, moved, and _manhandled_ away from the blankets, the pillows, until the bed was stripped down to the sheets. That was when the real fun started, and Aziraphale did not keep quiet about it.

Everything hurt. Crowley couldn’t touch him without hurting him, and that somehow was the worst of it all. That just the briefest touch to keep him up right while he shifted the pillows was enough to hurt Aziraphale, just as bad as his own body was hurting. It had to be done though, and once it was, Aziraphale lounged back into the pillows. When Crowley tried to pull back, Aziraphale’s hand was still wrenched into his shirt, and he leaned over just for the moment to peel back Aziraphale’s hand.

“Angel, hey,” Crowley whispered. “It’ll be alright.”

“I’m _scared_ ,” Aziraphale whimpered. Crowley kissed his forehead and, having finally gotten Aziraphale’s fingers out of his shirt, laid his hand over his stomach.

“I know, but I’ll be with you the whole time. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

Aziraphale made a show of it, the breathing. He was just as annoyed by the advice as he was grateful for it, because he had quite forgotten to breathe. It was something so simple, so easy, and yet he’d nearly thrown it to the wayside. A foolish thing, and Heavens, he was so thankful for Crowley. He sat there in the pillows, watching Crowley fret about, the way he and Anathema snapped at each other in such a way that Aziraphale could only describe as _friendly_ , and he smiled.

Three days prior, he’d forced Crowley to make that promise. Even if Crowley didn’t think he’d be able to keep it, Aziraphale knew he would. He had friends, even if he didn’t realize. Anathema and Newton, self-proclaimed godparents, wouldn’t disappear after this. They’d made that promise themselves. And then—then the kids would be around. Aziraphale had seen them, he’d met them; he was head over heels in love with the both of them. He knew Crowley would be too, the minute he saw them. He’d keep that promise better than he’d kept anything before. That thought alone was all that Aziraphale could think of; it’d be the only thing that got him through this. The pain was excruciating, and his whole body was fighting back against him.

“What do we do now?” he heard Crowley ask, hushed.

“We really just wait,” Anathema shrugged. “Can’t force someone to have a baby. They come when they’re read.”

Crowley groaned in frustration. He had no idea what the signs were for a supernatural birth, especially now that Aziraphale skipped _everything_ in the list of a human birth. Aside from the pain, of course, which had come all at once. But there was no talk of discharge or membranes or water breaking or anything. Aziraphale just was suddenly in a lot of pain. And suddenly, there was just a lot going on. He’d been set up near the end of the bed, and Crowley watched while Anathema did her _checks_ , she called them. She knew more than she was letting on, but Crowley wasn’t all that upset she hadn’t shared the gritty details. They’d had to change Aziraphale’s clothes. He was wearing essentially a wrap dress that Crowley had wished into existence, and his knees were up, thighs spread. Anathema was sitting at the end of the bed in a chair, and Crowley could only imagine the rest.

They had time, of that, Anathema was certain. Especially if Aziraphale was about to try and have twins. They would have to play it by ear, and Anathema would keep a close eye on him. Crowley needed to step out, even if the very suggestion suddenly had Aziraphale complaining. Crowley _needed_ to step away for a minute to collect his thoughts. And he did. He gave Aziraphale one very heavy word of assurance, that he _would_ be back. He wasn’t about to miss the birth of his kids. Then, he stomped downstairs where the tea kettle was going off. Newton was pouring some water into a mug just as Crowley rounded the corner into the kitchen.

“You look dreadful, by the way,” Newton said, handing over a cup. “This one’s just tea,” he said. “Nothing special.”

“Figure Aziraphale doesn’t get anything until he’s done,” Crowley shrugged, but he took the tea gratefully.

“I’m sure he should stay hydrated, but Anathema has that under control.”

Crowley nodded, sipping. He hadn’t thought that far ahead and felt a bit strange about it. But he’d been panicking almost as bad as Aziraphale had, which had clearly clouded his judgment. He hadn’t thought of something as simple as making sure Aziraphale had food and water, but he could rectify that. And mostly, that would be important afterward. Which led to the pointed refusal to think about Aziraphale’s commentary. That he wouldn’t survive the birth. Crowley sipped at his tea instead.

“You two ever thought about kids?” Crowley asked. It seemed like reasonable conversation: Anathema and Newton were married. They were both currently helping Aziraphale _have_ kids. So.

Newton snorted. “Haven’t, no. If it comes up, it comes up. Not something she or I are in some rush to get to, though.”

“Makes sense,” Crowley agreed. Not every human needed a kid, after all. He knew that well enough. “Would you like one?”

Newton just shrugged. “Haven’t thought about it.”

Apparently, Newton wasn’t much for conversation. They both just sipped on their tea in silence, after that. When Crowley finished, he set the cup in the sink—the _full_ sink, and contemplated, for a long moment, doing the dishes. He’d meant to, but he’d been so caught up with everything and the laundry that he hadn’t. He’d just let the dishes pile up. No doubt, there were unsavory little things growing over the dishes at the bottom, but Crowley didn’t really have time to worry about dishes. He would, eventually. After everything, but his phone was suddenly buzzing off in his back pocket. A message.

They still had time.

They would have time, for a long time, and Crowley ended up turning on the television. He might have found anything else to watch, but when a rerun of Aziraphale’s favorite cooking show showed up on the television, he really didn’t have the heart to change it. He sat down, on the back of the couch, and rested on his knees. In between the measurements of ingredients and the campy montage of putting them together, in the silence, Crowley thought about Aziraphale’s promise. Crowley had made that promise: he would not resent Gilgamesh or Astraea, he would take care of them, and he would move on.

He glanced off to the side, where Newton had taken it upon himself to pop open the dishwasher. That was what moving on looked like, he figured. A cardigan and glasses pushed all the way up the nose, a nicely styled haircut. Newton looked put together, like he had a steady job, like he made a steady income. Like he came home every day and hugged his wife, kissed her on the lips, and sat down to eat dinner with her. Of course, Crowley was also sure that it happened opposite just as often. Anathema had more drive than any human Crowley had ever met, and he knew she’d put it to good use. But it still looked put together: Newton waiting for Anathema to come home.

Crowley wouldn’t ever have to do that. He didn’t need a job to support his family: he had miracles. The part he needed was the _kissing his wife,_ so to say. He remembered the first time Aziraphale had introduced himself as Crowley’s wife. Aziraphale could be his husband, for all he cared. Partner, spouse, significant other—whatever. Crowley didn’t care for the labels; it’s why he hadn’t thought much about getting married. It was all just terribly human, and they weren’t human. They could be above it all, and yet Crowley didn’t want to be above it all. Not if it meant he would lose Aziraphale; the _kids_ would lose Aziraphale. That hurt worst of all, really. That Aziraphale wouldn’t be around to teach them how to read.

All the other stuff, Crowley would take care of. He would teach them how to ride a bike, how to drive, how to be as fruitfully obnoxious as possible. But the reading belonged to Aziraphale, and Crowley had spent more time than he wanted to admit imagining coming inside from the garden to see Aziraphale curled up on the couch, in the library, with one of the kids in his lap. A book. Moving on didn’t look as pretty as he wanted to think it did, because Newton and Anathema had moved on from the end of the world. That was an easy feat in comparison: moving on from Aziraphale.

Midnight was around the corner. It was just after eleven when Crowley got another message; he hadn’t needed to _read_ the message, because he heard the shriek before he felt his phone. He still didn’t need to read the message: Aziraphale was about to have twins. Crowley barely remembered to pass that onto Newton before he was dashing up the stairs, and _hell_ , he wasn’t expecting the shouting. Aziraphale had some ability for it, and Crowley couldn’t blame him. And because of it, the first thing Anathema did was sneer at him.

“You get _over_ there with him and help him,” she said, pointing up to Aziraphale. “He’s not—I can’t get him to push.”

It was _exactly_ like a human birth. Newton came a moment later to help on Anathema’s end, but Crowley was left with nothing to do but sit down on the bed with Aziraphale and grab onto his hand. Aziraphale’s grip was painful, and his nails dug straight into Crowley’s flesh, but he didn’t pull back. He squeezed harder and reached around to put his hand on Aziraphale’s back. He thought idly, for just a passing second, that this looked terribly like one of those media produced births, except Aziraphale would be giving birth to _actual_ infants, not year-old babies. In the next second, Aziraphale had clamped down on his hand so hard that his fingers suddenly lost all feeling, and that dragged him right back to reality.

“Breathe, dove, breathe,” Crowley told him. “You have to push—and don’t snap at me again.”

Aziraphale didn’t have the breath to speak, let alone to breathe, but he was going to try for it now. There was nothing to dull the pain, nothing to _help_ —just his death grip on Crowley’s hand. It was all he had to ground him, and he held as tight as he could. Each push was the hardest thing he’d done in his life. He’d been ready to face off with Satan, nothing but a flaming sword, and somehow the fold of his body to _push_ was the hardest thing he’d ever faced. Every bone in his body ached. Every muscle. Every fiber. Every nerve. He couldn’t rest—not with Crowley’s hand on his back. It was purposeful, he knew, because it was best this just be over.

But _Hell_ , if he didn’t want to scream. He did scream. He shouted and cried and screamed again with every push, and he could feel Crowley’s skin break under his nails, but he couldn’t stop. As long as Crowley provided it, he’d use it. He needed something to ground him, to keep him around through every push. Even though he could feel his strength waning, he kept going. Kept at it, jaw dropped open in screams that had died out with his voice. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. He kept—he couldn’t let go. Crowley was there with him, watching him, helping him. Aziraphale would be a fool to let go of that, and if he just kept _going_ —

He heard _crying_. High pitched and squealing and _crying_. He fell back into the pillows, suddenly exhausted. The pain had subsided all at once, for just a minute, and he watched as Crowley pushed away from the bed. The rush he had to get to the end, where Anathema was holding just what was making that noise. Aziraphale felt his heart swell, immediately. Even when it seemed clinical and gross for a moment; Crowley had gone down to cut the cord. Aziraphale was stupidly giddy about how human it was, and that when Crowley _held_ the infant—it was a red, slimy looking mess. Nothing about it should have been beautiful and _wonderful_ , but Crowley was smiling. The infant was screaming, crying, but Aziraphale could still hear the weak little break in Crowley’s voice when he said hello.

“It’s Gilgamesh,” Crowley said, quietly. Aziraphale heard him louder and clear, through the crying.

“What about—what about—?” Aziraphale couldn’t form the question.

“Looks like she’s taking her time,” Crowley said.

“It’s normal,” Anathema supplied. “They don’t pop out at the same time. That’d be, well,” she waved her hand, “inconvenient.”

Newton was the one who took Gilgamesh off. All the proper stuff, Aziraphale was told. They wanted to be as official as possible, just on the off chance that they wanted their children to be _legal_ children. Gilgamesh would be cleaned, weighed, and wrapped. Things Aziraphale was happy he didn’t have to deal with, especially not when thirteen minutes later the pain started right back up again. More intense, if that was possible; then, Anathema was calling Crowley back, because the second was one was coming.

Astraea came just as fast, twice as painfully. Aziraphale knew he was done when he heard the crying, and he, once again, fell back into the pillows. Crowley pulled off with one glance back—Aziraphale smiled at him and waved him away. He needed to rest, and that made sense. That made perfect sense, and no one was worried about him. He was pale, messy, and tired, but he was an angel. Aziraphale would be more than fine, and his rest gave Crowley the chance he needed to duck off and _see_ the kids. Gilgamesh and Astraea. Brand new, wonderfully looking babies. They were clean and wrapped up tightly, each in their own little tartan patterned blanket. Aziraphale had insisted; Crowley couldn’t say no.

“They’re ugly,” Anathema said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley brushed her off. “Wait until they grow up; all you humans will be falling all over them.”

Anathema snorted, but she didn’t argue.

“What time is it, actually?” Crowley asked. “And—”

“It’s the first,” Newton replied. “Happy New Year. The boy was born at five after, the girl sixteen minutes later.”

Crowley smiled, “Happy New Year,” he replied.

Eventually, Anathema and Newton left. It was nearly one in the morning, and they were both tired. Crowley didn’t mind the quiet, though he did ask about it. Again, something normal for babies to quiet down eventually. It made sense, and Crowley had apologized and waved them off. Gilgamesh and Astraea hadn’t even opened their eyes yet, but they were both wrapped and sound asleep. He took them, one in each arm, back out to the bedroom. The bathroom hadn’t been _the_ best place, but it had been the only place. Now, after everything, he got to lay them each in their crib and give them a place to rest. Then, he turned to look at the rest of the room.

“This is a mess,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced at Aziraphale, who seemed to have fallen just as fast asleep. He figured that a miracle wouldn’t hurt, here. The laundry had been to distract him from all of this. Now that they had two healthy infants, Crowley didn’t need laundry anymore. He didn’t need the dishes, either, but those were currently humming away thanks to Newton.

Crowley just snapped his fingers, and the room returned to normal. The sheets were clean, the bed remade, and Aziraphale was dressed in something clean. For all his time and effort, Crowley figured he deserved a rest. He deserved the first night in months of being able to curl up in bed with Aziraphale at his chest and _sleep_. And sleep comfortable, profoundly, even. Without nightmares, if he could help it. The more he thought about it, the more sleep was sounding nice. Well-deserved. A perfectly acceptable solution to a perfectly acceptable day.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said. He hadn’t even bothered to put on his pajamas. A snap of his fingers was enough to get him into something comfortable enough to sit down. And. No response. Crowley raised an eyebrow and peered over Aziraphale; he didn’t usually sleep so deeply.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said again, louder. He reached over and touched at his shoulder. Shook him.

When Aziraphale’s arm collapsed with dead weight to the bed, when he moved, Crowley knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 BABIES!!!  
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
> 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT YOU CAN ALL STOP SCREAMING IN MY INBOX NOW

Between the shock and the exhaustion, Crowley couldn’t have a moment to worry. He’d reached out for Aziraphale, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up to the shrieking sound of crying. Aziraphale hadn’t moved so much a breath in the night, and still—how horrible it was—Crowley didn’t have a moment to even glance. If he did, he knew he’d lose whatever last bit of drive he had in his bones. If he passed one _glance_ at Aziraphale and had just one more thought that he’d lost him forever, Crowley wouldn’t have enough will go to on. It was better this way, he told himself in earnest. It was better if he took care of the crying and thought harder about the whole picture before him later. It was a picture he didn’t care to glance for, and the crying was beginning to grate at the drums in his ears.

Crowley rushed across the room without so much as remembering to open his eyes before he was reaching down towards the crying, towards the _crib._ They were each full now, and it brought him back away from everything for a moment. They weren’t just thoughts and future what-ifs, anymore, the twins. They were very real, very much alive, and Gilgamesh was very much crying. Crowley hadn’t even realized which one it was until he’d lifted Gilgamesh out of the crib, and it sort of just fell into place after that. Like the weight of him was enough for Crowley to know which twin it was. At the moment, they looked near identical. They were soft, squishy, and round; one was crying, one was still fast asleep.

“Alright, little guy,” Crowley muttered, mostly to himself. “What seems to be the issue?”

Babies did three things, Crowley remembered. They ate, they slept, and they pooped. It wasn’t as of either Aziraphale or Crowley were particularly required to expel waste like humans did, and by extension, Crowley was going to assume that wasn’t the problem for the moment. They hadn’t planned that far ahead. That left sleeping and eating, to which Gilgamesh _had_ just woken up. Which left eating. Which left Crowley standing there in the middle of the bedroom, rocking Gilgamesh against his chest with his eyes locked back on the bed. Locked on Aziraphale, where his _body_ still was.

Nobody would ever question the insanity of a man who would sleep the whole night through with a _body_ beside him, not if they believed the body was alive and breathing. But Crowley didn’t really know that, anymore. He stared over Aziraphale and felt frozen, where he was, with so much more than uncertainty. If Aziraphale had discorporated, surely his body wouldn’t still be around. Neither of them had so much experience with discorporating, but with the actual meaning of the word, Crowley could only imagine. The bodies weren’t technically theirs, just on loan. Yet, Aziraphale’s _body_ was still lying in the bed, in quite the same position he’d been in the night before where Crowley, caught up with the shock and the exhaustion, had passed out before he’d had a moment to think.

Now, he couldn’t spare a moment to think, to worry. It wouldn’t be fair. He could stand there dumbly the rest of the day and worry on and on about Aziraphale and what had happened, but there was every real possibility that Aziraphale’s worst fear had been realized. That Gilgamesh and Astraea had required one last thing from him, and he’d not just died in the process, but vanished all together. That would certainly keep his body there, and Crowley thought no more about it. It wasn’t the twins’ fault. He wouldn’t resent them for it. If something had happened at all.

“Right, then,” Crowley stiffened up. Standing there and hoping wasn’t going to get Gilgamesh to stop crying, and it certainly wasn’t going to feed him. Even if the thought and action combined only seemed to cement the idea that something _had_ happened to Aziraphale, Crowley still waved his hand about and produced exactly one bottle. It would contain precisely what Gilgamesh required, because Crowley believed that it would, and he moved across the room to sit down in the armchair.

“Wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know,” Crowley was talking _to_ Gilgamesh now, who seemed to pick up pretty fast just how to drink out of a bottle. Then, like Gilgamesh could understand him, Crowley continued. “Your mum talked a big talk about it, too. Nursing you both. You and your sister, I mean—you know you have a sister, don’t you?” Crowley glanced back to the crib.

“Course you do,” he decided. “Mum said you talked to him about it, anyway. Did you know she’d be younger, though?”

Gilgamesh just continued to drink, happily content and dried tears.

“Does that mean that originally it was just you?” Crowley wondered again. He shifted Gilgamesh in his arms so he could lean more into the side of the armchair, then shifted the bottle. His arm was already cramping, and that was the least problematic thing he could focus on at the moment.

Reasonably, it didn’t make sense that one of them had come first. That would have implied that Gilgamesh, having been _born_ first, somehow created Astraea. Which. Crowley wanted to believe they were that powerful but was rather afraid of the implications and consequences if they were. It was more likely that they had been an entirely different being, creature, before Raguel had attacked. They had been that creature for all of days, maybe, before they split and became what they were, but they hadn’t been Gilgamesh or Astraea at the beginning. Briefly, Crowley wondered if they _had_ been a monster. Changing forms entirely would be an excellently clever way to hide from those who wanted them dead.

“Clever indeed,” Crowley muttered to himself. The bottle was halfway empty, and Gilgamesh showed no sign of stopping.

“You,” Crowley said, “have your mum’s eyes. They’re very blue, and I very much like them. I was told you would have strawberry blond hair, as well. Quite the color you two picked.”

Gilgamesh was less than twenty-four hours old. There was no way that he could listen, comprehend, or respond to a word Crowley was saying. Still, Crowley swore he noticed the subtlest of little eye shifts, towards him, at the compliment. Like Gilgamesh was paying attention but just didn’t have the proper human skills required for reciprocity. What a wonder it was, the idea of how quickly Gilgamesh and Astraea might develop. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley spent even a second as a child: it would be very possible that the trait would pass on. That their twins would spend very little time helpless and quiet.

Once the bottle was gone, Crowley laid Gilgamesh back in his crib. Really, for lack of anything else to do with him. The plan was for two children, two parents. Crowley would have to learn quickly how to hold them both at the same time if life continued down the path it was glancing. It was an easier way to think about a bleak future: where the only thing he would need to adjust was his skill for holding infants. Infants: small, helpless, and without a mother.

“So, what about you, little star?” Crowley leaned over the edge of Astraea’s crib. The talking to himself, the quiet japes, the joy in his voice—it was the only thing that would distract him. Astraea hadn’t made a noise since she’d quieted the night before. Not so much as a cry nor a peep, and Crowley was more worried for it than he needed to admit. He wasn’t a fool, and he certainly wasn’t a day old. Crowley had been around long enough to hear for infant mortality rates, and certainly his lot may have had something to do with them. It would even make sense, if they were _true_ infants. They’d been born and left to their own devices, but that’s what they seemed to need. They just seemed.

Fine.

As if Astraea had _sensed_ his worry, Crowley hadn’t had to look over her for more than a second before she opened her eyes for him—and his heart shattered all at once. She’d opened her _eyes_ —her _eyes_. Astraea’s eyes were there, staring up at him in all of their big, round— _yellow_ —wonder. Her pupils were dark and slitted, and she lacked even the smallest bit of white in her eyes. They were, without a doubt, Crowley’s eyes and at their _worst_. What he looked like as a demon, what he looked like when he’d lost all thought and control of them. Perfectly bled a golden yellow and staring right back at him; Astraea even seemed to be _smiling_. If only Crowley could return that smile, but he’d taken one look, and he’d started to tear up.

“You weren’t supposed to do that, little star,” he told her. He’d put it together all at once, from something Aziraphale had said. That they’d _chosen_ their hair color. Crowley could only assume that meant they’d chosen their eyes, too, and Astraea’s were _his_.

It had been his worst fear that the twins would take after him, even in the smallest amount. His eyes were just about the largest amount Astraea could have taken without so much as becoming a smaller, female version of his current form. He would have minded that less, he thought, if she’d had blue eyes. Like Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s eyes were beautiful, and Astraea would have been just as striking with them. Instead, she’d done this. Crowley was near terrified to think what else it would mean; angels and demons didn’t have kids at the best of times, and they certainly did not have kids with each other. Did this make Astraea a demon? Or were they still some unholy hybrid of the two—or neither, at all, perhaps.

What was worse, then? Did the twins also have wings? Would Astraea sprout a black, scorned, and sooted pair? Was she so incredibly damned by existing that she’d Fallen before she’d even had a chance at life—oh, but the sense it didn’t make. Crowley gripped his fists together and tried to bite back the prickling tears. They were not, by any stretch of the definition, angels. Gilgamesh and Astraea were not and never had been angels. It would have been impossible. Considering strictly what Raguel had said, they were originally a _monster_ , not an angel. Astraea could not Fall if she’d never Been at all. They may not even have wings, the two of them. But Crowley couldn’t let his mind sit still. He would need to feed her, soon, and he could hardly muster the strength to lift his head.

“Crowley?”

He heard the voice. His own name. A voice he recognized. But everything in his mind screamed that he should ignore it—his mind was playing tricks on him. Grief was catching up faster than he could run, and this would be the price he’d pay for it. If he turned around to follow the voice, he’d break. He’d be reminded of everything he was going to have to face for the rest of his future, the rest of his _life—_ forever, really. This would be forever. He would have his twins, sure, and thusly wouldn’t ever be alone—weren’t there bad movies where immortal children just stayed children forever? Would they even be immortal? But he wouldn’t have _Aziraphale_. He needed Aziraphale.

“ _Crowley_ —” the voice again.

Crowley couldn’t ignore it this time. He whirled around to the sound of the voice, and—there it was. Aziraphale. He was sitting there, _sitting_ , with the blankets clutched up around his chest. He was shivering, staring, and Crowley’s name was on his lips again. Pleading for him, begging for the distance to be closed. And even then, more importantly, _most_ importantly, Aziraphale was alive. He was alive. He was _alive._ Aziraphale was sitting, breathing, blinking—moments away from crying. Crowley couldn’t wait another second. He pulled away from Astraea’s crib and all but dove across the space to crawl into the bed.

Aziraphale was _there_. He was alive. Crowley had his hands around Aziraphale’s face, and for a long moment, they just stared at each other. Whatever fear Crowley had faced, Aziraphale had faced it too. It was written all over his face, and Crowley almost didn’t want to know. There was time to know, later, when they’d gotten over the moment. They were kissing in the next second, a desperate and heady press of lips where they couldn’t seem to wrap their minds around the fact that they were _together_. In the same world, apparently. Near each other, touching—Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s neck tight enough to drag him entirely down, to lay over Aziraphale’s body and just prove that this was real.

“Aziraphale, are you—” Crowley pulled back just mere inches, dragging his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “Are you here? You’re—”

Aziraphale nodded, “I am. I’m here—I’m _okay_ , I’m—” his breath caught in his throat, and their foreheads knocked together. Aziraphale’s entire body shuddered with unshed tears that Crowley wiped from his eyes. Another kiss, then another, and Crowley pulled back once more.

“I want—I want to see them,” Aziraphale whispered. “I didn’t get to _see_ them, Crowley. I want to—”

Crowley hushed him. “You can see them. You can see them.”

Aziraphale wanted to hold them. He wanted to see what beautiful thing he and Crowley had created, and to hope that maybe it would cure the pit in the bottom of his stomach. He watched the hesitant way in which Crowley pulled away; if he went too fast, Aziraphale might disappear, too far would give the same result. He was afraid but letting Aziraphale hold their twins was just another moment of proof that Aziraphale was back. He was happy. He was alive. He would get to do everything that he’d planned for and _more_.

“Wait—is that? Is that a bottle?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley had barely managed time enough to pluck Astraea from her crib and turn around. Then, he looked at the bottle and grimaced.

“Well, Gilgamesh. He was—he was crying, you know, and I had to feed him. I thought you were, well.” Crowley stiffened up and glanced down at the pattern on the duvet. “I thought you weren’t going to wake up.”

Aziraphale’s breath was deep and long, but he nodded. He moved to stay something, but Crowley spoke faster.

“Were you really just sleeping?” he asked. He had to know. Crowley had to know if he’d really just seen one horrid time where Aziraphale had slept longer than normal, or if his panic had been real.

When Aziraphale didn’t answer, it was a promise to share everything when the time was right. For the moment, he just held out his arms for Crowley to hand over Astraea, and he did. She nestled right up in Aziraphale’s elbow, against his chest, and looked at him with her big, golden eyes. She did quite appear seconds away from her crying fit, especially now that she must have realized feeding time was being put off more and more.

“I haven’t fed her,” Crowley said. He’d quite gone and collapsed into the armchair. “She—she needs to be fed. Can you tell that she’s hungry?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Do you think I should? Nurse her, I mean. Maybe we should just use the bottle—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed. He leaned forward onto his knees, wringing his hands together. “You _dreamed_ about nursing them. I’m sorry for the bottle, but—”

“Don’t apologize. I’m being foolish,” Aziraphale nearly whispered. “I should nurse her—both of them, I mean. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I dreamed about, wasn’t it?”

Crowley nodded.

There was a long moment of silence where Crowley just watched as Aziraphale settled Astraea in his lap for a long enough moment that he could slip away the top of the very _clean_ wrap dress he was in. It didn’t take much situating, after that, before Astraea was nursing. Aziraphale was even _smiling_ , and Crowley couldn’t fathom a moment where he ruined that to talk about his own fears. He needed to know what happened to Aziraphale. But that could wait for this moment to pass. Aziraphale finally had everything he’d wanted, and it had been just over a _year_ for it. A long pregnancy, a terrible birth, really, and all for this. Crowley really couldn’t have smiled wider.

Aziraphale even _laughed._ He brushed his fingers over Astraea’s cheek, watching her with such a kind look in his eye that it was almost unheard of. Crowley busied himself away from it, staring, by scooping Gilgamesh back up out of his crib and scooting around the bed to sit on the other side. He sat as close as he could get to Aziraphale without crowding and held out Gilgamesh in such a way that Aziraphale could at least look at him—until he could hold him. Aziraphale wanted to hold him badly, and he wore that on his face with everything else.

“It feels a bit funny,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Bad?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not bad, just strange. I’ll get used to it.”

When Astraea had her fill, Crowley took her back in his arms. He would develop the skill of holding them both as fast as he needed to, and only for the short time it took for Aziraphale to situate his clothes back over his shoulders. Then, he took Gilgamesh to coo over him instead. Truly, Aziraphale had never seen such beautiful little babies. He hadn’t spent much time in his life looking at babies, but he had seen them. He always thought they tended to be loud and a bit squishy looking, and Gilgamesh and Astraea were the same. But there was something different about the way they looked, something incredibly _familiar_ —even if Aziraphale had never truly seen their faces before.

“Ah, that’s it,” Aziraphale said suddenly. Crowley faced him, eyebrows raised, and eyes still cast down at Astraea, in his arms. “They have your nose.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley implored. “Astraea already has my eyes—that’s bad enough.”

“It’s not _bad_ , Crowley. She picked them; you know.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

To which Aziraphale sighed and reached out to press one hand into Crowley’s thigh, to massage his fingertips into Crowley’s skin, through his pants, and sigh again. Crowley looked at him for the longest time before Aziraphale dared to even speak again. It was the same old conversation they always had, when Crowley said things like that. Aziraphale loved his eyes; they were unique, special. They were something to be proud of, because they showed just what kind of a person Crowley could be. Fierce in every way imaginable but still soft enough to make hot chocolate on the cold mornings. Astraea had seen, in his eyes, everything that Aziraphale did. And as the conversation always went Crowley sighed and looked back down at Astraea, who had somehow managed to curl closer to him.

“They’re not even a day old,” Crowley marveled. He rubbed his fingers down Astraea’s back.

“I think we should make them official,” Aziraphale said. “You know—papers and everything. Like humans do.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Like humans do?”

“Yes. Birth certificates and _records._ Things of that sort, you know.”

“What if they turn out to be immortal?”

“We can fix that later,” Aziraphale raised his hand. “Miracles and all. I think I’d like this. Especially, well, if your proposal still holds.”

“Technically—” Crowley gawked, “—I haven’t even proposed yet!”

“The _sentiment_ , dear.” Aziraphale smiled. “Does it still hold? Is there a proposal in my future?”

They had a future now to think about. Crowley had been so ready to cast it off when he’d seen what happened to Aziraphale, but none of that mattered anymore. _They_ had a future, as a family. It meant Crowley could continue his plan, could continue to make them, and everything would be alright. If Aziraphale wanted a proposal, he would get one. Crowley would make sure of it. The best proposal Aziraphale had ever gotten, had ever seen—and when it all ran up in the human way, they would just do it all again. Crowley would propose for the rest of forever, and there would be a time when Astraea and Gilgamesh were old enough to listen to how horrifyingly sweet it would all be.

“Yes,” Crowley eventually said, though it came out garbled and cracked. “But, uh—the twins.” Subject changed, and Crowley found the strength in it to look at Aziraphale. “You want them to be like humans, so they’ll need names. Surnames, you know. Humans have those.”

“Humans have those,” Aziraphale repeated, smiling. “You have one, too. My name has never been very good, you know. Not too concrete—A.Z Fell.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think they should have _your_ last name,” Aziraphale dropped his glance. Gilgamesh had grabbed onto his finger, which caught his attention over anything else. Day old infants didn’t _do_ that, specifically. Not that they didn’t it was more that they couldn’t.

“My last name.”

“Yes, well. It seems only proper. If we do get married, it would be expected that I take your last name, as well. You do appear as a man, and I, a woman.”

“You _really_ want to go it like the humans,” Crowley chuckled. “You know that name stuff is bollocks anyway, right? You can have whatever name you want”

“Yes, well. _I_ would like to take your last name,” Aziraphale said, sternly. Firmer. “I would like them to have it, too. Does that bother you, or—?” They looked directly at each other, and Aziraphale stopped talked immediately. Crowley looked more than alright. He looked _elated_. He’d been joking, of course, but that’s just what he did. That was how he dealt with things at the best of times: turning them into something less frightening. A joke, a jest. Something easy to process. The minute he’d realized Aziraphale had been serious, he’d dropped the act all together. He just stared forward like Aziraphale had offered him the world.

“It’s settled, then,” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle. He looked back down to Gilgamesh, unable to keep up with that shimmer in Crowley’s eyes. “Gilgamesh and Astraea Crowley.”

“You realize this means you’ll have to call me Anthony, right?” Crowley snickered.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley—”

“It’ll be weird to call me by the family name, that’s all I’ve said.” Crowley grinned and leaned back into the headboard. He hoisted Astraea up until she was laying on his chest, and there, he held her.

“I—right,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Anthony,” he tried. They both went silent for a long moment, and when Crowley glanced over—Aziraphale’s face had gone entirely red.

Crowley swore right there, if they ever had another moment alone, he would have Aziraphale _screaming_ that name. After everything that happened, there was a burning itch in his skin to be as close to Aziraphale as possible, to _remember_ that he was here. To really feel and believe it—they hadn’t had sex in over a year. Crowley could not and would not be blamed for this sudden itch, either. Especially not after such a domestic display. There was time for that, though. There would be time enough for everything.

When Aziraphale woke up again, it was with a horrid shout somewhere in the middle of the night. There was sweat dripping down his face, and the only thing he could think about was how all the _sweating_ was ruining his hair—he was a _fool_. In the next thirteen seconds, after his shout—he should not have shouted—Astraea started to _shriek_. Never one to be left out, apparently, Gilgamesh followed her quickly. Now there were two screaming children, Aziraphale had his arms wrapped around his middle with a throbbing headache, sweat on his brow, and the sudden urge to vomit up everything he’d eaten today. Thankfully, the noise was enough to add Crowley to the mix.

He’d jolted out of whatever deep sleep he’d been in and didn’t even pay a mind to Aziraphale. Aziraphale should have been offended; there was a time where a sudden noise in the night meant Crowley would hover until the fourth assurance that everything was fine, and then they would kiss and lay back down together, wrapped up so close that Aziraphale wasn’t sure what divided them. Times were different now and watching Crowley hurry across the room to the twins was endearing. It was gentle. Crowley had been so terrified of what kind of father he would be, and there he was. A one-track mind focused only on those in the room without ability to care for themselves.

That didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t want that attention too. He just had the ability to _ask_ for it, and he had to. He had to speak up and apologize for causing this sudden chaos, to tell Crowley he _needed_ to be hovered over and kissed and held—he was terrified. And there were things he hadn’t told Crowley; he had to tell Crowley, or it would eat away at him forever. Crowley already had his own nightmares, and even if he kept to himself, Aziraphale could always see it in his eyes. Even now, when he turned to face Aziraphale with Astraea against his chest—Aziraphale could see the lines under his eyes. Like Crowley would thank him for the chaos because it tore him from a nightmare, too. One he wouldn’t talk about.

“You take her?” Crowley muttered. “I’ll get the other one.”

Aziraphale nodded weakly and reached out for Astraea. He took her, he held her, and he rocked her close to his chest. Crowley sat down on the edge of the bed with Gilgamesh, and for the longest time, there was just crying. A lot of crying—more crying. For fifteen whole minutes, there was nothing but crying, until Astraea had finally settled down happily with her face pressed into the v of skin on Aziraphale’s chest where his clothes separated into a collar. Gilgamesh didn’t quiet down for another five, and even then, his whimpering continued. But it was quiet enough, light enough now with situated eyes and Crowley’s ever apparent knack for seeing in the dark that they could talk.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale croaked. Crowley looked at him with a sudden jerk, eyebrows pulled up. Aziraphale didn’t even realize he’d started tearing up until that moment, and what a fool he felt for it. It was the pregnancy, he told himself. Even though angels did not have hormones, and therefore would not react to hormone changes, he would blame it on that. He wasn’t supposed to be this emotional, this quick to tears. He was an angel—he’d been a _warrior_ , at one point. But he had so much more to worry about now. He couldn’t help but hold Astraea a little closer, a little tighter. She was so small—they both were.

“We’ve done something _terrible_ ,” Aziraphale whispered.

“What do you mean, angel?” Crowley wanted to say something else entirely. He wanted to shout that there was no room for doubting their choices now. The twins were _here_. There was no return policy on children, at least none that he’d ever heard of. And it would be a crueler fate to them and the world to throw the children in with the humans. Crowley would never let that happen, even if Aziraphale wanted to back out.

“We should never have done this—” but Aziraphale showed none of those signs, that he wanted to disappear. In fact, he had Astraea as close as she could be without hurting her—and he was looking pointedly at Gilgamesh, not Crowley. Aziraphale _loved_ them, the twins.

“What happened, love?” Crowley said, softer this time. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” Gilgamesh had finally stopped whimpering, and things were silent when Aziraphale spoke. He took a long, deep breath.

The last thing Aziraphale had seen before his eyes closed was Crowley holding Astraea, newly born and just as disgusting as any newborn should be. Aziraphale hadn’t even had the will to smile, his eyes had closed, and things had gone deathly still for a very long and somber moment. When he opened his eyes again, everything was _wrong_. The walls around him were white and clean, not covered in that beautiful ivy decal Crowley had made. There were windows that spanned from floor to ceiling just off to the side, where their window had been covered by shabby blinds. It hadn’t taken more than three seconds for Aziraphale to realize that he wasn’t in the cottage anymore—he’d died.

No. He hadn’t died. He’d discorporated in some strange way where he could still feel the tug of his body—maybe he hadn’t discorporated at all. Maybe it was just a momentary set back. What he did know was that he was in Heaven, literally. He’d ducked back into a doorway when an angel had walked by, instinctively, and that had said volumes. He didn’t want to be back in Heaven, not when they had made it their goal to kill him. And his children. Children he may never get to meet, now, unless there was something to be done. If there was something to be done, the only way to find it would be to walk about.

Walking felt strange, though. Like the soles of his feet were in another reality, away from him. That was when he had a sudden thought and looked down, over himself. Relief washed over; his feminine form had remained intact, and that brought a smile to his face. He was getting used to the look, and having it suddenly wrenched away from him would have left him feeling strange and disoriented. Of that, he was sure. Glad that it wouldn’t come to that, he pressed forward, curling around the first hallway corner and turning to the left. First, he had to figure out just where in Heaven he was. Second, he had to figure out what he could do about this. He wasn’t just going to leave Crowley alone, not with two dangerous infants.

Aziraphale wanted to care for those infants too. He wanted to nurse them, teach them to read—all that stupid stuff he’d been so caught up on since the moment he’d found he was pregnant. Now, that chance was daring to dangle just far enough out of reach that he might miss it, and he wouldn’t stand for that. If he had to scour through the entirety of Heaven to find his way out, then he would. He never wanted to be here again. Once, he’d thought it was beautiful, Heaven. Nothing could match up to the beauty of his twins. A one-track mind.

From the windows, Aziraphale could nearly see all the kingdoms of the world just outside the treks of Heaven’s Kingdom. Heaven was smaller than the humans had believed, though, and it looked like nothing short of a busy metropolis. Aziraphale had once found it beautiful, but now, it was just another obstacle keeping him from his _life._ First, Heaven had tried tooth and nail to keep him from Crowley, and now it was like they were trying to keep him from his twins. Though, on quick thought, Aziraphale realized Heaven probably had nothing to do with this.

Better to blame them, though. Aziraphale would blame Heaven for the rest of his life, for everything that happened.

He continued down through the hallway, ducking off to the side when he sensed an angel coming too close. This would only get him to the end, and then he stopped against the wall to look around. If he ducked across, he might be able to find his way to the elevator. The globe, even. There was still that tug on the bottom of his feet, the tips of his fingers—he might be able to simply possess his own body. That might be the end goal no matter how he got out of Heaven; getting out of Heaven was his first goal. He ducked across the hall and down another one. An empty one.

There were no doors in this hallway, and similarly, there were no angels. It seemed a long, dull walk to no particular goal on the other end. Until Aziraphale got closer, that was, and he realized just where he was walking. He’d been in this room once before, before the humans. During the First War, when they had looked to him to fight against the newly Fallen Ones. He would never forget leading his own platoon of soldiers or the wound that it earned him. Thankfully, the limp only existed in this ethereal form. In his true form, it didn’t quite exist at all.

This room, though. This room had been a war room, a conference room. A place where he and other high-ranking angels had met to discuss the plan, to go over the details and the peculiarities. It was a dead end, but something dragged Aziraphale down the hallway anyway. An unseen force that didn’t let him stop until he had rounded the corner of the room, where the glass doors sat. He’d have to glance in to know if he was safe, and that had his heart pounding in his chest—metaphorically speaking, only. He didn’t have a heart in this form. He just _existed._

Just as fast as Aziraphale had glanced around the door frame, through the doors, he had pressed himself back into the wall. He’d made _eye contact_. He was sure of it. With maybe entirely the wrong person. The Archangels had been meeting about something. Aziraphale hadn’t had time to garner just what they were talking about or what was spread out on the table, but he had made eye contact. A feeling of dread settled deep in his gut as he pushed away from the wall. He had to get away, just as fast as he’d come. On hurried feet, he rushed back down the hall. On bad judgment, he went back the way he came.

And suddenly, there was an arm around his neck and a hand over his mouth, yanking him back and into the first available door. It had taken some fumbling, and Aziraphale had struggled like he needed air. The struggle ended sorely quick when Aziraphale fell to the floor of this empty room under the press of his own weight. Whoever had grabbed him— _she_ _’d_ just let him go. Aziraphale gulped when he looked up at her. Raguel. He shouldn’t have looked into the room. His luck would have had it that _she_ would be the one who saw him. Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and even Gabriel had had their backs to the door. Raguel had been standing on her own side of the table, arms crossed and alone, and looked right at him.

“What in _Hell_ _’s_ name are you doing here?!” she spat, an angry whisper.

“Well, I—this wasn’t exactly my first choice!” he defended immediately. He picked himself back off the floor and dusted off imagined filth. It was a habit, really.

Raguel stood there with her arms useless at her sides. She was dressed in that ugly alabaster white that all angels war, in some variation, and it suck out like flashed shine against her dark skin. She looked more or less than same that she did when she’d been on Earth, when she’d been Elle. Just an unsuspecting patron at a shop. Even in her place in Heaven, dressed tightly in a fine suit, she didn’t look any different. Powerful was behind her eyes, but it stood nowhere else. She did not intend to harm him, not like she had then.

“It’s born then, isn’t it?” she asked.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Fuck,” she grumbled. “Fuck—we’re both fucked, you realize. You, me, and your _whatever_ he is.” She started to pace, running her hands through her mass of hair and sighing. “They think I killed it because we haven’t been able to find it since I left. Any particular reason _why_ something that powerful dropped off the radar?”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“Cut the crap, Aziraphale. I’m the only one who can get you out of here, and if you’re going to lie to me? No. Do not lie to me. Do not hide things from me,” she had walked straight up to his face and jabbed her finger into his chest. “ _What_ happened?”

“What do you mean get me out of here? As long as I’m up here, I’ve no obligation to endanger the life of my child _or_ my partner.”

Raguel’s face fell down into a mild scowl, just teetering on the edge of annoyance, but not so much that she was angry anymore. Aziraphale was right. Raguel had none of the leverage if she didn’t give something up first, so she backed off and straightened her suit jacket.

“They’re planning something,” she said. “We are, I suppose, since they’ve welcomed me back with open arms for my swift deliverance of _justice_ on your demon’s spawn.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“They still want their war. I’m told you and your partner took it right out from under them. Good job, by the way. Really, I’m so fucking proud. Only thing is—doesn’t fucking _matter._ ” She talked with her hands, she paced. She made wild gestures in the air before she came back to Aziraphale, inches from his face. “None of it did. They’re still going to fight. We’ve got good intel that Hell is planning something similar. You didn’t stop the war. You just—fucking—you put it off. Good job.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In case you didn’t notice, I was _gone_ for the first Armageddon?” Raguel rolled her eyes and stepped back, folding her arms. “I was off playing in the stars. I didn’t want to be _a part_ of it. There’s only so much smiting a girl can take.”

“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”

Raguel snorted. “Well, not like we ever talked much before now, yeah? Listen,” Raguel sighed and pushed back her hair, “they’re planning something big. A war. Bad timing if you ask me, but I can’t confirm that until I know about that kid. They think the kid’s dead, and I know it’s not.”

“Is that the bad timing, then?” Aziraphale had to know as much of the truth he could manage.

“God likes the number eleven,” Raguel said with some funny bout of disgust. “Eleven years we’ll plan, and eleven years we’ll fight. You remember what else happened at eleven, yeah? That’s when Adam Young got his power—or so when I’m told. Wasn’t here,” she threw her arms up to drive the emphasis home.

“You think my child will follow the same routine,” Aziraphale said. It was obvious. It was painfully obvious. They had eleven years to prepare for a fight that the very existence of Gilgamesh and Astraea demanded that they be a part of it, Crowley and Aziraphale. They weren’t free, yet. They’d never been free, maybe. Not truly.

“I do, which is why I gotta know what happened. I can’t figure the rest of this out if I only know half the story.”

“Why do you seem so bent on helping? Why should I trust you?”

“Fuck, you drive a hard bargain,” Raguel swore. “Look, Heaven’s starting a _war_ , and I don’t wanna be part of it. Why’s that so hard to trust? I didn’t want to be part of the first one, and I certainly don’t want to be part of _this_ one—”

“That doesn’t involve me,” Aziraphale stated calmly. “That’s for your personal gain and helping me doesn’t get you anything. Unless it does.”

Raguel sucked in a deep breath, through her nose, then sighed it out of her mouth. “Keeping you away keeps me safe. If they found out I didn’t kill your spawn? I’m toast, next,” she said. “I help you; you help me. Easy-peasy. Now please, tell me what happened.”

Aziraphale sighed, nodded, and resigned himself. He wouldn’t be getting out if he didn’t share the information, so he had to tell.

“After you attacked me,” Aziraphale said pointedly, “something changed. Originally, I believe you may have been correct. There was one child, and it would be born a monster. Your attack altered its form. Somehow, it was intelligent enough to know it had put me in danger, and that clearly didn’t bode well for survival. It split itself in two, and somehow, that redistribution of energy created more humanoid forms.”

“Humanoid,” Raguel said, shocked. Her eyes were wide, and she looked ready to laugh. “You had—you had twins. You really fucking gave birth to twins.”

Aziraphale nodded. He still remembered how horrid the experience had been, how badly it had hurt. He didn’t think it was something he’d ever want to experience again.

“Fuck,” Raguel laughed. “Just like the humans—they said you’d gone native. I didn’t believe it, but here we are. Native. Having babies like humans do. _Fuck._ ”

“Pardon me? I didn’t realize this was such a—”

“No! No, it’s just. No,” Raguel waved him off. “This is amazing. Never been an angel who did this, you know. It’s pretty amazing, and I’m impressed. Splitting like that took them off our radar.” She shrugged. “We didn’t know what we were looking for anymore, because to us, they’ll look like humans.”

“I don’t think they’ll stay that way for long, given what I know. But, well,” Aziraphale said with a shrug, “I haven’t exactly met them.”

“Right, that. Right. I’m getting there. Just,” Raguel stopped to sigh, “be careful, alright? I don’t know what they are anymore, and I _was_ right—you would have had a monster. Now, I don’t know what’s going on. They could be dangerous.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m their _mother;_ they won’t hurt me—”

“Not on purpose, no,” Raguel said. She closed the distance between them, her palm towards Aziraphale. All she had to do was _push_ , and Aziraphale was falling backwards. Through the floor, the floors, until he was falling through a pit of black nothingness that surrounded him in horror all at once.

Was he Falling? Had Raguel just damned him straight to hell and gone back on her word to help? Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past her, but there was on burning in his back, his wings, his eyes. He was just falling; it was a peaceful thing where his eyes wanted to droop and close again. They did, eventually, when the air had turned cool and comforting again. When the ivy returned, and behind closed eyelids, Aziraphale could hear the slightest bit of talking. It was Crowley’s voice; he recognized Crowley’s voice. And oh—Crowley sounded _sad_. He had to comfort him. Aziraphale had to wake up.

Aziraphale paused to look at Crowley. He hadn’t looked at Crowley once since the story started, and now he was afraid to look. Crowley was just staring at him, though. Lips slightly parted, eyes a little wide, Crowley looked like he was in shock. Like he’d expected to hear anything other than what Aziraphale had told him, and even Crowley was holding Gilgamesh a little closer than he had been. It was fear—Raguel knew about them now. It was trust—they had to believe Raguel wouldn’t use this against them. She might, but she might not. She’d helped Aziraphale out, after all. She’d sent him right back to his body, right back to Crowley.

“You really did die, didn’t you?” Crowley muttered.

“I—” Aziraphale’s voice caught in his throat. Had he?

“And Heaven and Hell still want their war. I knew they would,” Crowley sighed. “We couldn’t stop this even if we tried.”

They couldn’t, but maybe that was the point. Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t meant to stop anything; they were meant to postpone the main event. There had to be a reason that Heaven and Hell had both been so afraid of Gilgamesh and Astraea but hadn’t done anything to preemptively solve the problem. There was every chance that Gilgamesh and Astraea were apart of no one’s Plan. That they existed in their own right, because Crowley and Aziraphale had made a decision to let them. Which meant something even stronger.

“Gilgamesh and Astraea can,” Aziraphale said. “Raguel said they plan for the war to start in eleven years. She believes, too, that that’s when they’ll fully understand their powers.”

“Like Adam,” Crowley grumbled. “Real creative, the Almighty.”

“I don’t think She knew they’d exist. I think that’s why Raguel was sent. They were a _surprise_.”

That grabbed Crowley’s attention. He looked at Aziraphale for a long, strange moment before snorting. “You really think this is something the Almighty doesn’t have in Her cute little ineffable plan?”

“I don’t really know, Crowley. But at the moment, guesses are all we have.”

“Guesses and a Hell of a lot of time,” Crowley slumped back into the pillows. He shifted so that Gilgamesh, who had since fallen asleep through the story, was laying against his chest, right up against his neck.

They did have a lot of time. They had more time than either of them had ever planned to have. Originally, they’d assumed that the birth of their twins would spell the attack of Legions, but that wasn’t the case. Heaven and Hell were busy preparing for their own war, and all at once, they had _eleven years_ on their hands. Eleven years to raise Gilgamesh and Astraea. Unlike their first attempt, they would be able to do this. There was no guess work, no room for regular cockups or mistakes. It was just the four of them, like a family.

Gilgamesh and Astraea would grow up knowing exactly who their parents were, because they’d known from conception. Gilgamesh and Astraea would grow up knowing their own capabilities, because they’d known from conception. There would be no hiding this, and there would be no preventing it. Heaven and Hell would have their war, but there was, certainly, ways of stopping it. One way, in fact. Separated out into two, tiny bodies of sleeping infants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𓆏 HE'S FINE 𓆏  
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit?? Another chapter? It's been a huge delay, hasn't it?? Shit. Anyway. This story is definitely NOT abandoned, I was just taking an extended break, apparently. Had a spark today, so I banged this chapter out in one sitting. I have very little self control
> 
> Enjoy!

Two months had passed by quicker than it had any right to. Two months seemed like no time at all, and maybe in the wake of the lifespan Gilgamesh and Astraea would have, it would be no time at all, truly. Still, it had been two months. Two months of waking up every odd hour of the night to check on them. Two months of learning that, so far, the information on the parenting websites hadn’t meant a thing in the ways of reality. These weren’t normal children, though.

Aziraphale had, whether fortunately or unfortunately, spent most of their waking ours breast feeding them. One or the other. Someone was always hungry. Even where the websites and the books had said not to attend a child’s every tantrum with the promise of food, that’s what they had done. It wasn’t as if Gilgamesh or Astraea were throwing tantrums—they genuinely were hungry. They were smart enough to even ask for food, with gestures and a certain type of cry. It was uncanny and unnatural, but so was everything about their birth.

Crowley, in turn, had taken a lot of time cooking food. Aziraphale needed the extra energy for the extra nursing he hadn’t planned on, and really, it kept him busy. When he wasn’t cooking, he was taking care of the twins. One or the other, usually; they took turns, passing them around like candy, really. At two months, they were already certain that Astraea preferred Crowley, and Gilgamesh preferred Aziraphale. They both hoped the twins would grow out of it, but it was hard for Crowley to say he didn’t enjoy the absolute love Astraea looked at him with.

It was soothing, especially when Aziraphale could confirm it was love. It meant that Crowley hadn’t permanently damned them both, and he’d been so afraid that he had. Even when Astraea looked at him with his own eyes, golden with slit-shaped pupils, no whites, Astraea looked at him with love. Gilgamesh had the same look, but with his Aziraphale-blue eyes, it was easier to imagine he hadn’t been damned from birth. He didn’t _look_ much like a demon. Really, the two of them didn’t look much different at all. The eyes were the only real way to tell them apart.

That was until the two months had passed. It was one of those odd days where Aziraphale and Crowley had managed to sleep the whole night through without periodic breaks for screaming babies. It was so odd, in fact, that it had never happened before. It was the first actual night’s sleep that Crowley had in two months. Aziraphale had even slept the night through, and sleeping wasn’t even something he had ever been accustomed to. Gilgamesh and Astraea were certainly proving how wonderful sleep could be, however. Aziraphale napped often.

It was in the oddity of the morning silence that Crowley decided that it might be worth a venture to have breakfast prepared before the twins had even woken up. Hopefully, they were truly sleeping. Hopefully, they would stay that away. Crowley would have time to prepare a beautiful breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon to present to Aziraphale—who surely deserved it. Aziraphale was having just as hard at time as Crowley was having, and a moment to themselves was certainly worth the effort.

Crowley prepared that breakfast, humming and whistling to himself as he did. He flipped the pancakes with practiced ease while he broiled the bacon int he oven. Really, he was already having delusions of grandeur as some famous chef. The only problem would be explaining away his lack of experience and lack of aging. A few miracles here or there were bound to do the trick, but he had prior commitments, anyway.

No pancake breakfast was complete without a dollop of whipped cream on top, and Crowley did just that. He always made them the exact way Aziraphale preferred before stacking everything onto a silver tray. The tray only appeared when he needed it, because that was easier than finding someplace for it to be stored. Once everything was set, Crowley hoisted it up the stairs and into the bedroom. Aziraphale, wonderfully, was still asleep.

Whenever Crowley had a rare moment to look at Aziraphale, like this, while he was asleep—he treasured it. Aziraphale was a special sort of beauty that refused to die, but Crowley had always thought that Aziraphale looked especially beautiful like this. Crowley loved Aziraphale in all of his forms, but there was something special about the long, white ringlets of his hair and the way his bangs fell over his forehead that was particularly endearing.

Crowley certainly loved the body, too. Aziraphale could have chosen to look anything when he’d decided to look a woman, and he chose to continue to be full and wide. Now that there were two twins, there was sorely a lack of time to appreciate just how beautiful Aziraphale’s curves and rolls were. There were two particular ones that Crowley liked best, but he’d always had a special sort of affinity for Aziraphale’s chest. Now, Aziraphale had taken to even forgoing a bra. It was much easier than struggling with it every time Gilgamesh or Astraea wanted to eat. Crowley enjoyed his view.

“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley nudged him when he set the tray down across his lap. “Hey, I know it’s early, love, but I made breakfast.”

“Nine in the morning is hardly early, my dear,” Aziraphale muttered.

He was more taken with the idea of breakfast than he was for arguing the semantics of the clock, however. He sat up to look over the tray Crowley had brought, and his eyes lit up at the sight of it. Aziraphale was certainly one with a sweet tooth, even if that meant having chocolate sauce and whipped cream on his pancakes. Crowley was happy to provide.

“It looks wonderful, Crowley. Oh, thank you, really. Is there some occasion I’ve missed?”

“None,” Crowley said, leaning over to kiss Aziraphale’s temple. “Eat your breakfast. I think those brats of ours have been a bit quiet for too long.”

“Oh, indeed. Worried that two infants are going to be causing trouble?” Aziraphale grinned.

After the first few weeks of having twins, Aziraphale and Crowley had made the decision to move them into one of the other bedrooms. That way, they could attempt to sleep in shifts. One parent would be awake to care of the little ones while the other caught up on some much-needed shut eye. It hadn’t exactly worked as they’d planned, but they’d turned the room into a nursery, and it was beautiful. It had little, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling: something Crowley had been rather proud of himself for finding.

The walls were painted like a sunset, though they had done it with miracle and not true, painterly skill. It was still particularly beautiful. They’d put up decals on the wall with shelves and little stuffed toys. The whole thing was designed to be easily turned into a bedroom, when the children were old enough to require each one of their own. There was a plump and comfortable armchair that Aziraphale used frequently when came time to nurse. He even had one of those pillows that made it easier to nurse them both at the same time. Modern miracles.

Then, there were the two ornate cribs they’d gotten. And nothing. No noise. Crowley hadn’t been entirely worried before then, but he was worried now. Usually, they were at least awake, but just temperate enough to lie alone and make cooing noises at each other from the across the foot-wide space between their cribs. Crowley and Aziraphale had found rather early that neither twin really enjoyed being separated from the other, so they’d left the cribs close.

But there were no noises. Crowley cleared the room as quick as he could and faltered, in that space between the cribs. The children _were_ awake, but they weren’t—they weren’t _children._ They wouldn’t have been able to cry if they’d wanted to, without the proper equipment to do it. Crowley felt his strength leave him at the sight, and if not for the sudden miracle of a chair beneath him, he would have collapsed to the floor.

Dread. It was dread that filled him, then, staring between the cribs. He’d expected two, small infants to be entirely sound asleep. What he’d found were two tiny little snakes coiled up in the blankets for warmth, because the room wasn’t so well put together for _snakes_. Snakes. They were _snakes_.

In Astraea’s bed was a tiny snake, barely the size of Crowley’s palm. She looked exactly the way Crowley remembered he looked—with black, sleek scales and a red underbelly. She had big, flashing yellow eyes. When she’d looked at them, he’d watched the way the slits dilated ever so slightly, and that had been as long as he could bring himself to look.

Gilgamesh was the same with his new, red underbelly, but his scales were a shining, shimmering white. It was the only saving grace he had, being able to take after Aziraphale like that. Crowley still hadn’t been able to look for very long. Even if Gilgamesh wasn’t quite the same soot covered night-covered snake, he was still a snake. A snake. Crowley was a snake—a demon. A demon snake. A demon snake that had decided it was a good idea to have children and pass that very same damnation down to them, even if it wasn’t the same.

Crowley wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d sat there, but it was long enough that Aziraphale had come looking for him. Aziraphale was dressed in his nightgown, still, the one that had spaghetti straps and was easy to slip out of when someone needed a meal.

“Crowley, dear, is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked from the doorway. “Something hasn’t happened to them, has it?”

“I happened to them,” Crowley muttered into his hands.

“Whatever do you mean?”

When Crowley didn’t answer, Aziraphale stepped into the room to approach the cribs. Crowley watched him carefully, dreading whatever response he might get. Maybe Aziraphale would scream at him. Maybe Aziraphale would cry and mourn whatever loss he deemed this to be. Those were his children, too, after all. It didn’t seem fair that Crowley had done so much wrong to them. Aziraphale didn’t do a thing but smile.

“Oh,” he said, “they look like noodles, don’t they?”

Crowley looked at him.

“They’re so very small.” Aziraphale even laughed. “It’s nice that they’re different colors. I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference if they both looked like you. Would be rather unfair, too, I think. Being who I am, anyway, it would be hard to point to a black snake and say that it was mine.”

“Angel,” Crowley frowned. He watched as Aziraphale dipped his hands into Gilgamesh’s crib and pulled out the little white snake. Gilgamesh had curled up into the palm of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Oh, they are so small. I do think he might fit into my pocket—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, more sternly, and stood up. “You’re not—this doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course not. Why would it bother me?” Aziraphale frowned. He reached into Astraea’s crib to pick her up, too. He had one small snake in each of his hands, and he held out his hands between himself and Crowley’s chest. Crowley, for the second time, good a good, long look at them.

“I mean,” Crowley hesitated. “It’s a demon thing. I’m a snake.”

“Yes, I know you’re a snake. I think you’ve rather proved that to me, many times before. If I had ever had an issue with your being a snake, I don’t think we would have ever come this far.”

Crowley’s face went a little red. There had been a handful of times, a couple of times, just once or twice, that Aziraphale had invited a very serpentine Crowley into the bed to wrap around him. Those had been particularly intense times, and Crowley had cherished them. He thought they were an exception, but Aziraphale had other thoughts. Aziraphale loved the very snake form that Crowley despised. He’d always thought it was too much a demon thing for an angel to ever love.

“Here,” Aziraphale offered forward his left hand. Crowley stared down at the little white coil before he scooped it up.

Crowley watched as Gilgamesh uncoiled and wrapped himself around the base of Crowley’s thumb. It was a slow, tedious little process, but they were no doubt learning how to move in these new forms. It was certainly different from being a human with legs; Crowley had never quite figured out the particulars of walking, even for his age. It never felt natural. To the twins, this snake form, no doubt, felt the same.

“They’re beautiful, Crowley, and their ours. It doesn’t matter what they look like. You may find in the future that they are just as capable as choosing their corporations as we are. In fact, maybe they have more control over it. It’s just something we have to find out. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley muttered. “They are beautiful, you’re right.”

Aziraphale smiled. It was a step. Maybe Crowley would even believe that about himself, one day. Even at his most monstrous, Crowley’s snake form was beautiful. His scales and his eyes and his teeth were marvelous things, and Aziraphale loved them all every bit as much as he loved Crowley. Crowley, one day, might even come to love them, himself.

The issue had only come later, after about a week. It had taken a week for Gilgamesh and Astraea to figure out how to change _back_ to their original forms, and they came back with teeth. They came back with full mouths of teeth, in fact, of the adult size. They were even a bit sharper than normal, human-looking teeth. Crowley had been expecting that with the amount of times Astraea had bit him while she was a snake. Now, she could do it as a person. Their teeth just looked a bit silly, is all.

“They’ll grow into them?” Aziraphale suggested.

“I hope so,” Crowley conceded.

With the new set of teeth came a brand-new set of appetites, too. Gilgamesh and Astraea had gone from nursing to hard, solid adult food in a matter of a week. They didn’t just eat adult food; they ate _a lot_ of it. Astraea could devour an entire steak in under a minute, and she did it often. Gilgamesh, on the other hand, seemed to prefer chicken. They had baked him an entire one, once, and he’d dismantled it with his hands.

At three months, their new appetites made their first ever family-outing a treat. Gilgamesh and Astraea were already looking like chubby little children older than their age, but it didn’t stop people from staring. Crowley and Aziraphale had prepared all manner of wonderful foods to try out at St James’ park, and one of those was a particularly difficult French dish that Aziraphale had always wanted to try his hand at making. It was chicken, which meant it was for Gilgamesh.

Astraea wasn’t so picky, and she was happy to sit on top of the picnic table with a top round steak in her hands. It was cooked medium-rare and had absolutely no seasoning on it, but she devoured it anyway. People did stop and stare. Some people stopped and _asked_ , and it was certainly not in a friendly tone.

“Excuse me,” a woman had said. “Ma’am,” to Aziraphale, “what _exactly_ are you feeding your children?”

“Well, this is a coque a vin,” Aziraphale pointed to the dish he was feeding Gilgamesh. The lady hadn’t even stopped to hear the rest of it. She’d waltzed off with a scoff, and with the flick of Crowley’s fingers, she would find herself stepping in a suspiciously deep puddle.

Picnics were not such a great idea, but they had all enjoyed the sun.

At six months, there was less a concern at keeping Astraea and Gilgamesh overly confined. They still weren’t walking, but they were crawling. Astraea had been the first one to figure out the beast of the stairs, and Gilgamesh had simply followed her lead. Now, they had run of the house; it meant Aziraphale could lounge on the couch with his cooking shows. They’d had to baby-proof a few things, like the sharp corners of the coffee table, but the living area was generally safe.

Astraea and Gilgamesh played with each other, more often than not. There had been plenty of times where they were joined, however. Crowley had spent many an hour on the floor, between the two of them, playing blocks. Aziraphale had found the scene rather endearing, and he’d learned to take pictures on his phone just to commemorate it. It was only fair, since Crowley took pictures whenever he caught Aziraphale playing dolls with them, and they both did very much like their dolls.

This wasn’t a day for playing blocks and dolls, though. In fact, it didn’t seem a day for playing at all. Gilgamesh and Astraea had been set off to the side with their toys, even if they seemed more entranced with each other—as in the way that children often smacked, anyway. As long as nobody cried, Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t pay any mind. The biting was where they drew the line, but Astraea didn’t bite as much as she used to.

It was on a commercial break that Aziraphale suddenly had little hands on his knee. It’d shocked him, and his first instinct was the possibility of a spider or something else small and creepy that had scampered its way up the couch. It was, however, Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh had stood and _walked_ across the room to put his hands on Aziraphale’s knee and grin up at him with his silly looking teeth.

“Book!” Gilgamesh said.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “Crowley!” he called. “Crowley, oh, hurry, please! Gilgamesh has just—well, he’s _spoken_!” Aziraphale reached down to scoop Gilgamesh off the ground, and Gilgamesh slapped his hands into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Book,” he said again, a slight frown on his face.

Behind the couch, Crowley’s jaw might have dropped. Aziraphale knew he was there from the sudden look Gilgamesh had and the little, baby wave that he gave. Crowley waved back with his fingers; his eyes stupidly wide. Gilgamesh had just said a _word_ , beyond the babbling that he could manage before. In no short order, Astraea was right behind him from her place on the floor. She tossed one her of blocks onto the ground and glared.

“Stupid,” she said. She, however, did not stand up and walk.

Crowley snorted a laugh. She was certainly his daughter, and now, it was just obvious.

“Do you think he wants a book, or that he thinks you’re a book?” Crowley laughed to himself. He walked across the room to plop down on the floor near Astraea.

“Book!” Gilgamesh shouted again, and he pointed back towards the stairs.

“My,” Aziraphale laughed, “I think you’ve offended him. They are extremely intelligent, aren’t they?”

_Astraea_ was the one who snorted, then. She looked over at Aziraphale and Gilgamesh and just repeated herself. “Stupid,” she said.

“Alright,” Crowley huffed. He grabbed Astraea off the floor and plopped her down in his lap. “I’ll take care of little miss sour snake here. You can take Gilgamesh off to read all the books he can.”

In the following three days, Gilgamesh and Astraea had both not only learned how to walk, but they had learned how to read. Talking was taking a bit longer, but they could do the other two things. It had been exciting, at first, but it had put a quick end to sitting together in the big chair in the library to read. Aziraphale didn’t _have_ to read with them, anymore. He didn’t have to sit there and hold open their baby books and help them sound out words. They certainly weren’t reading Charlotte Bronte, but they were _reading_ on their own.

The walking had been almost less exciting. That first day, after Crowley had scolded Astraea for being rude, she’d won his affections back immediately by running before she could walk. She’d run after Crowley when he’d meant to make himself a cup of coffee—something he was finding to be more crucial as the days went by. She’d run right into his leg, hugged her arms around it as tight as she could, and repeated the only word she seemed to know. Crowley, in his way, had melted.

Then, she’d learned to read in all the same was as Gilgamesh had. She’d sat with Aziraphale in his big armchair, in the library, and listened to him read book after book. By the third book, she’d wanted to help. By the fifth book, she was reading to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was at least grateful it had been the fifth book, because Gilgamesh had done that by the fourth. It just, simply, wasn’t fair.

Aziraphale, who had readied himself for bed the moment they’d put the twins down, was lying with his back to the door and his arms crossed. He was surely just as cross with how quickly things had been going. Having children had been his idea; it was only natural that he’d actually been excited to experience raising them. Already, at six months, they were doing things that some five-year olds struggled with, and he simply thought it wasn’t fair.

Crowley, ever obnoxiously attentive as he was, had noticed something was off about Aziraphale the moment he climbed into bed. He scooted closer so he could put his hand on Aziraphale’s hip in that way he always did when he meant to _soothe._ He rubbed in little circles while he pressed up against Aziraphale’s back and laid little kisses in his hair. Aziraphale softened back against him, letting out a sigh.

“What’s wrong, angel?”

“I’m just a bit upset; it’s nothing,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley pressed just a bit closer, letting his hand smooth up over Aziraphale’s stomach, where he rested it. “What’s wrong?” he tried again.

“They’ve just—oh, Crowley, they’re growing up so fast. It’s not fair. I was hoping to actually have to teach them to do _something_ , but they’ve learned so fast.”

“Oh, love, that’s just their way. I think you and I learned rather fast how to do things, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, but we weren’t _children_ ,” Aziraphale grumbled. “We just. Well, you know.” They had just appeared, one day, as adults. In the trueness of their forms, they were ageless creatures. But with corporations, they had been adults.

“I’m sure they could just forget how to read, if it bothers you so much.” Crowley shifted away so Aziraphale could lay on his back. Crowley, who had propped himself up on his elbow, looked down at Aziraphale.

“That would be foolish,” Aziraphale frowned.

“Yes, it would be.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. _He_ was being foolish. Crowley was rubbing little shapes into his abdomen and it had him feeling calm enough to realize something like that.

“You’re their mother, angel. No matter which way you play it, you’re Mum. You gave birth to them—Hell, I think you died for them, already. That’s something most Mums don’t come back from, you know.”

“Yes, well—” Aziraphale muttered to himself.

“They’ll always need you. Maybe they won’t need you to teach them to read, but that doesn’t mean reading’s off the shelf. Besides, they don’t know how to ride bikes yet, how to cook, how to clean. There’s plenty of stuff to teach them. Just be _patient_ , love.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Besides, they’re sleeping the whole night, now. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Crowley, please,” Aziraphale chided. It was a half-hearted sort of protest that read more like a breathless invitation, when Crowley’s hand moved over to cup Aziraphale’s left breast.

“Let me comfort you, Mum,” Crowley whispered, moving just a tad closer. “You’re doing a wonderful job at this whole Mum thing. It’ll only get better, you know. Just wait until they start talking. Plenty of scolding to be done, then.”

Aziraphale laughed into their kiss. It wasn’t entirely bad, even if he hadn’t gotten to truly do what he’d been dreaming about. Crowley was right. They were only children, and they needed to learn so much before they would ever stop being children. Supernatural or not, they were in a brand-new world, doing things they’d never done before.

The talking came next, and it came just as fast as everything else had. At first, there were just words spouted and echoed back and forth. It was like they were getting a taste for how words felt in their mouths, and once they’d found they’d _liked_ that taste, it was time for a veritable buffet. Once that happened, it wouldn’t matter how polite Crowley kept his talk, because Astraea had been around the whole time to hear him.

Thankfully, the one thing that Aziraphale was glad for, is that their talking stayed ad words and phrases. It wasn’t as if they were suddenly talking like the most learned of scholars; as such, they’d retained _part_ of their image as children. They were nearing their first birthday, and they did seem to be slowing down a bit.

They both still ate like eating was the only way to pass the time. Wherever that energy went, it went immediately. They ate, and they ate, and they ate. They’d started branching out into new things, which made it more fun, but it also meant that they’d discovered pancakes with chocolate syrup and whipped cream—Aziraphale’s favorite.

“Is this really what we’re all doing for breakfast, now?” Crowley asked. He was certainly instigating it, though, as he put a dollop of whipped cream on Gilgamesh’s pancakes. “I mean, chocolate for breakfast?”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale chided. “They’ll be fine. They’ve been eating like hooligans since birth. I think it’ll make for a fun birthday, don’t you?”

“Oh sure,” Crowley rolled his eyes, putting whipped cream on Astraea’s pancakes next. “I can’t wait to see them both eat an entire sheet cake. Should we do chocolate or vanilla?”

“Chocolate!” Astraea shouted.

“Vanilla!” Gilgamesh frowned.

“Marble it is,” Crowley decided. “I suppose I’ll just figure out how to whip one of those right up. Only got a month or so to figure it out. I know you two are far above store bought food.” Crowley finished his rounds by squirting a pile of whipped cream into his own mouth like it was a fine bottle of single-malt scotch.

“Store bought?” Gilgamesh looked slightly concerned. It dawned on Aziraphale and Crowley, then, that they’d never actually _provided_ store bought food. It made sense that two eight-month olds wouldn’t know exactly what that meant.

Aziraphale made good breakfast table conversation by explaining the concept of stores and restaurants. Stores were how they were able to provide the things in the house; while they both believed in preparing their own meals and wouldn’t be serving—usually—frozen things or food that was pre-done, food like that did exist. Stores sold things like clothes, furniture, and electronics, too. Gilgamesh and Astraea looked at each other like Aziraphale was speaking French, but they would piece it together eventually.

In fact, Aziraphale might even think to teach them other languages. He was a bit rusty, himself, but he could put the effort in to relearn if it meant he could teach his children to speak, too. Humans did say it was better to teach things to children than to adults; while Aziraphale was sure that didn’t apply to children as insanely strange as Gilgamesh and Astraea were turning out to be, it was certainly an idea worth playing at.

“Still want chocolate,” Astraea finally decided. “Chocolate.”

“I told you, you’re getting marble,” Crowley said from the countertop. He wasn’t eating, so he was making do by gathering up the appliances to be cleaned.

“Don’t know marble,” Astraea frowned.

“It’s like chocolate and vanilla swirled together. That way, you and your brother can both be happy.”

Gilgamesh and Astraea looked at each other for a moment, like they were sharing words that no one else could hear, and they simultaneously nodded.

“I like marble,” Gilgamesh decided.

“Alright, little man. You’ve never had marble, but I’ll take what I can get,” Crowley laughed to himself.

Just like that, there was a party to be planning for. Gilgamesh and Astraea would be one-year old, and it would be as big of a spectacle as they could make it, between the four of them. There would be presents, movies, games, and cake. There was certainly going to be cake, or someone was going to throw a fit. Both of them would. Crowley knew they would both throw a fit when they stuck their faces into the cake, first, but that was just something every baby had to deal with. Regardless of their accelerated size and development—they were babies. Aziraphale and Crowley had to remember that.

Aziraphale took care of the presents and the decorations while Crowley took care of the menu. Aziraphale had insisted on hosting a true party, even if it would just be the four of them. Birthday parties were a wonderfully fun human thing, he’d said, and it was only fair that Astraea and Gilgamesh be given the same amount of fun that any human child would have. Especially since, unlike human children, they would have the mind enough to remember their first birthday party.

While Aziraphale hadn’t gone to the store to buy decorations, he had ordered a few off the Internet. That, and presents. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely privy on how to drive, and he wasn’t going to be taking lessons anytime soon. He wouldn’t ask Crowley to go, with how busy he’d been, and they couldn’t both go anyway. They had no one, on such short notice, to watch the children. It worked well enough, anyway. Astraea and Gilgamesh even got to help.

Aziraphale wrapped the presents, secretly, in the master bedroom. They’d celebrated the winter holidays together as a family, as they’d celebrated all the other holidays, but they wouldn’t be celebrating the new year. It was significantly less exciting, as creatures who had lived for thousands of years, than the prospect of celebrating a birthday. The twins’ first birthday, in fact. They’d been around for the entirety of a year, and it had been the best year of Aziraphale and Crowley’s life.

Hopefully, the remaining ten then had would be just as good.

Crowley had been in the kitchen all day. The day started out with cartoons and cereal on the couch, because the twins had never been allowed to do that. They were certainly skilled at eating on their own, and Crowley trusted them not to spill anything on the sofa. They wouldn’t, or if they did, a quick miracle would keep Aziraphale away. He’d fret about it, like he fretted about everything, until Crowley miracled it off, and everything was better.

Lunch was an array of things from macaroni and cheese to hearty Italian cooking. Astraea and Gilgamesh weren’t so good at decision making yet, and they would be able to eat it all, anyway. Crowley certainly didn’t mind to prepare it all and lay it out on the dining room table. They’d do all of their eating in the living room, where the decorations were hung up so prettily. Their presents would be set out on the coffee table, soon, too. They’d sit there until Aziraphale said it was time to open them.

Next on the agenda would be movies that they’d never seen before. They’d watch an entire library of classic children’s movies, if Aziraphale had anything to say about it. In fact, the moment Aziraphale brought down the pile of presents—somehow, in one go—the movies were playing. Nobody had complained, because they’d seen the cartoons before. Gilgamesh and Astraea weren’t fans of reruns, because they hadn’t forgotten the first time they’d seen an episode.

“They’re like mini-adults,” Crowley had muttered. He was furiously stirring his bowl of cake batter—the entire lunch array already prepared. The cake would bake through the first half of the movie, and by the time Crowley wasn’t so much a fan of cartoons anymore, he could go off to finish putting the cake together. Inevitably, it would have to cool, and he’d be forced to watch the rest of the movie. He would like it more than he let on.

“Yes, but they are children,” Aziraphale reminded. “They’ll be children for as long as it takes them to not be children. We shouldn’t allow their appearance to influence how we treat them.”

Just then, a shrieking cry echoed throughout the room. As if to say _I told you so_ , Aziraphale offered Crowley a very particular type of grin.

“Mummy!” Astraea shrieked. “The—the—it turned off!”

Crowley could have rolled his eyes, but it was cute, to say the least. Aziraphale went to the rescue as fast as he could before _another_ child started shrieking. Aziraphale grabbed the television remote and turned it back on quickly, then sat down right between the twins.

Astraea, who was still crying about the whole thing, pressed into Aziraphale’s side and sniffed. Not one to be left out, Gilgamesh was suddenly doing the same. His sniffing was entirely fake, as he hadn’t even begun to cry, but Aziraphale still made sure to rub each of their backs until calm had returned between them.

“The telly does that to save power,” Aziraphale explained. “We should keep a better watch on it for now, shall we?”

Astraea nodded into his side. She buried her face a moment later, like she was ashamed for crying.

“Now, now,” Aziraphale soothed, “it’s quite alright, Astraea. It’s back on, and you’re free to watch. Daddy will have things ready soon enough, and then we can have lunch. Does that sound like an idea?”

Astraea nodded.

“Very good then. We want everything to stay tip-top for your big day, that includes you, dear. Why don’t you try a smile then, hm?”

Astraea pulled away from Aziraphale to look up at him, and it was _incredibly_ difficult not to smile when he looked the way he did. He was smiling, fond, and overly proud of her for something she didn’t think she’d ever understand. Maybe she’d been reluctant to smile, at first, but it sort of peeled its own away across her face in return to Aziraphale’s own smile.

“Very good. You do enjoy your show for a bit longer then, alright? Once the cake is in the oven, we’ll start the next movie.”

“Daddy will join?” Gilgamesh asked, then, just as Aziraphale stood up.

“Yes, he’ll join us after. I promise you.”

They both believed him, and peace was once again restored. Aziraphale returned to the kitchen, after, to assist with the remaining preparation. He gathered out all the different sized cake pans that Crowley needed, and then sat to the side as he watched Crowley fill them. Aziraphale took the spatula, once Crowley was done with it, and gave it a few licks. Really, Crowley was quite the expert when it came to all things in the kitchen. Even if it was Aziraphale who preferred his hand at baking, Crowley definitely had a knack for it.

“I’m never baking a damned cake again,” Crowley hissed.

“Language,” Aziraphale scolded. “They’ll hear you. Besides, they’re quite excited for their daddy to come and join them for movie time. So, please, try to look a bit less like you hate everything?”

Crowley softened. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“Do remember to wish them a happy birthday.”

The second movie was begun, and they watched. Crowley did wish the twins’ their happy birthday, and they both found a comfortable place to sit around their parents. When the oven went off, Crowley departed from the living area to do the rest of his work, and the movie still went on. He could see it from the kitchen, and each time either Gilgamesh or Astraea shouted to him about something that happened, he was readily able to reply. They liked that bit, the conversation.

Crowley got the cake settled and stashed away in the fridge to make its final set. It was four layers high, the top two layers a small size than the bottom two layers. It was a fully marble cake, frosted entirely with chocolate and vanilla icing. Crowley hadn’t exactly taken the time to frost it as pretty as it looked, but he figured that was exactly why he had demonic powers. So, he didn’t have to be frosting cakes he didn’t want to frost.

While the cake cooled, it was lunch time. Between the second and third movie, everyone had crowded around the dining table to pick and choose what they wanted to eat. Even Crowley decided he might enjoy taking a bite out of his own creations, so he took a small plate. Aziraphale had the largest plate, and that was only because they were trying to keep the children on some bit of a track. They clearly needed to eat, but there had been more than one occasion in which they’d eaten fast enough to make themselves sick. That was what they were trying to avoid.

Then, through the third movie, it was time for presents. Aziraphale was very particular about the presents. Nobody got to go _first_ ; instead, they were each given a package to tear into. The first two packages had each contained their own stuffed toy—Gilgamesh had gotten a turtle, where Astraea had gotten a cat. They were in love, immediately; Aziraphale hadn’t expected that, and getting their attention away from their new toys to continue opening their presents was harder than they’d expected.

“But Mummy!” Astraea had complained, her entire body wrapped around this cat toy. “I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her!”

“Don’t you want to open more presents?” Crowley suggested, from behind the couch. He was leaning over the back of it to help collect debris. “Maybe there’s more stuff you’ll love in those.”

“Impossible,” Gilgamesh was also insisting.

Eventually, they got the attention back on track. Their second presents, as they’d already figured, were not something they could love quite as much as they’d fallen for their new stuffed toys. The second present, for each of them, contained a plethora of new clothes. As much as Astraea adored her new little dress, and Gilgamesh thought his new little suit was rather fine, the love just wasn’t the same. It was the third present that absolutely captured them.

The third present was the biggest of all. It was one box, for the both of them, and they had to move to the floor to have enough room to get at it. Then, Aziraphale had to open the box. He passed a bit of a cheeky glance back to Crowley before pulling out the biggest stuffed toy that Astraea and Gilgamesh had ever seen. It was a giant snake, true to size on some days, with black, fluffy scales and a red underbelly. To drive it home, it had big, golden eyes, too.

“It’s Daddy!” Gilgamesh had shouted, laughing. He poured himself over the snake and hugged around the neck.

Crowley’s face had flushed a deep red. “How do they—how do they even know what I am?”

“It’s not hard,” Astraea stuck her tongue out. “Daddy is Daddy.” Like that had somehow explained the entirety of it. Astraea, in the following three seconds, had face planted into the back of the giant snake. It was soft and squishy—they’d have it flattened out in no time, like a giant, legless salamander.

“Angel, did you really?” Crowley asked, a bit hushed.

“I had to. I saw it online, and there was nothing that could possibly stop me. I may have done just the smallest miracle, though. The size wasn’t quite right.”

Crowley dropped his head into his folded arms, on the back of the couch, and stayed like that until the happy shrieking had stopped.

After that, Gilgamesh and Astraea had curled up on the sofa with their big, black snake wrapped around them. Gilgamesh had his turtle in his lap, while Astraea had her cat in hers, her thumb in her mouth. They watched the entirety of the third movie, like that, before anyone was even remotely ready for cake.

While the third movie played and Aziraphale readied the new clothes to be washed, Crowley cleared off the dining table. He washed the dishes, put away leftovers, and revealed the cake in all of its chocolate glory. They’d gotten candles, too. There was one, big candle for each of them to blow out. Once those were secure on the top of the cake, Crowley lit them with the end of his finger. Then, he called for cake.

The movie was paused, and two very small children came waddling into the dining room with their toys gripped tightly. The toys were set off on their own chair, where Crowley said they could enjoy the meal with everyone else. He’d ensure that they got their very own piece of cake to share—if it lasted that long.

Aziraphale stood to the side with the camera to take pictures as, one at a time, Crowley held them up to blow out their candle. They knew which candle was theirs because it, mysteriously, matched their brand-new toy. Gilgamesh blew out the turtle shaped candle, and Astraea blew out the cat one.

Just as Crowley had suspected, once Gilgamesh and Astraea were both level with the cake, the hands went in. Shockingly, they didn’t cry over the sudden mess. They just ate. It was all Crowley could do to salvage two actual pieces for him and Aziraphale to eat, off to the side. Aziraphale had set up the phone so this would never be lost, then he paid more attention to the cake. It was, as he suspected, extremely good.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

“I did my best. They seem to like it, anyway.” Crowley gestured to the table, where Gilgamesh and Astraea were each chomping on their own side of the cake. At that rate, they’d have the whole thing devoured. Crowley fully intended on letting them—it was their birthday, after all.

“Really, this whole thing was wonderful. I’m glad we took the time to do it.”

“Only ten more,” Crowley said in a huff. “I hope they’re all just like this, and everything Raguel said was wrong.”

Aziraphale thought to scold Crowley for such dark talk on such a bright day, but he agreed. “I do hope you’re right, dear.”

By the age of one, Astraea and Gilgamesh could walk, talk, and read. They’d learned to write, as well, though it had been a strange day. Writing seemed almost boring to them, liked they’d spent enough time as energy balls watching Aziraphale write in his ledger that there hadn’t been any need to teach them to write. It was probably how they’d already known, relatively, well, how to read. Either way, it was as if years of development had been squished down into one. For as exhausted as Aziraphale and Crowley were, they were glad for it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated again, and I'm not even sorry. Please enjoy this shit show of shenanigans, it was quite a time to write.
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated! 
> 
> I realize now that I do this thing where I don't update for 10 years and then i update the entire rest of the fic in less than a week. I need to be stopped (but no one is strong enough to stop me)

After their first birthday, an entirely new slew of issues came. Apparently, Gilgamesh and Astraea weren’t fast developers, they were _efficient_ developers. They’d gotten all the boring, dreadful human stuff out of the way in the first year so that an entirely new form of development could happen in the second year. The second year was when _supernatural_ took a brand-new meaning. It wasn’t just theoretically, anymore. It was reality.

Not more than two days had passed since their first birthday, and when Crowley had gone to get them from the cribs, once again—they weren’t the same. Crowley was just exasperated with it, at this point. It was something he should have been expecting, for all intents and purposes. Much like the first snake transformation, it had happened entirely on accident.

“Alright, little miss,” Crowley huffed. “When I put you to bed last night, I strictly recall that you had strawberry blond hair, and it was short. Care to explain why it’s green and long?”

Astraea laughed up at Crowley. She waved at him, too, and really, it was impossible to be mad at her when she looked like that. He wasn’t exactly mad at her, at all. Just exasperated. At least it wasn’t as bad as Gilgamesh had gone, who’s entire nose had shifted shapes overnight. He even had a longer face than he’d had before. If Crowley were being honest, he would say it was quite impressive, just the depths at which they could go to change their forms.

This was the first time it had happened, but Crowley could already tell that it was going to make for some very interesting days, especially if they only got better at it. He was sure that no other parent would ever have to face a day where they wondered what their child was going to look like, but as long as they would shift back, eventually, Crowley supposed it really didn’t matter. And he was, terribly, impressed by it. Aziraphale had been correct—they had far more control over their corporations than any angel or demon ever did.

Just like the first time they’d ever made move to transform, it took them a few days to figure out how to reverse the process. That was when things got mess; they’d figured out how to do it both ways, and they were both rather so impressed with themselves, that it became the only thing they wanted to do. It was sometime in the summer when Crowley had found Gilgamesh sitting in the master bedroom, in front of the mirror that was on the door of the closet.

Gilgamesh was just changing. Everything. Anything he could. They couldn’t change their _size_ yet, and Crowley was grateful for it. However, they could change everything else. Gilgamesh could look like an entirely different little boy, and it was as impressive as it was scary.

“It’s a little magnificent, don’t you think?” Crowley asked. He leaned into the door frame, watching Gilgamesh shift back and forth. Aziraphale was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching through the mirror.

“A little terrifying. I remember being afraid of their potential before they were born, but now it’s just. Well, reality seems to be much more frightening than potential, doesn’t it?”

Gilgamesh returned to his true face all at once, turning at his waist to look back at Aziraphale. “Scary?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it like that. I think it’s good that you’re practicing.”

Gilgamesh smiled, all at once, and went back to shifting in the mirror.

Crowley gave a half-quirked smile when he looked at Aziraphale. There were bags under his eyes, and it was almost impressive how tired he’d become. Crowley crossed the room to pull himself onto the bed with Aziraphale, where he knelt behind him and rubbed into his shoulders for a moment. Aziraphale loosened under his touch, but he didn’t look any more relieved than he had been—which was absolutely not at all.

“I think I’m going to have to thank Raguel when I see her,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s ear. He didn’t want Gilgamesh to hear him. “I don’t think I would have been able to cope on my own.”

Aziraphale gave a weak smile, moving to rest his hand over Crowley’s. “I don’t think you’d have been able to, either, dear. That, and I’m glad I’m here to see this. They’re really quite magnificent, as you said.”

Crowley gave a pleasant little hummed and leaned around to kiss Aziraphale directly on the lips.

“Where’s Astraea, dear?” Aziraphale asked, when they parted.

“Ah, yes,” Crowley sniffed. “About that. Seems she’s a bit snippier than Gil down there, and she would very much not like to be disturbed.”

Aziraphale laughed, then. It was a true, hearty, and genuine laugh that was such a rare thing these days. “That’s ridiculous, Crowley. She is so very much like you, isn’t she?”

“For better or for worse, angel.” Crowley kissed him again.

They switched, after that. Crowley sat down on the bed to watch Gilgamesh learn to shift the color of his nails while Aziraphale walked off through the house to find Astraea. As it were, Astraea was lying flat on the couch with her feet up in the air, watching the color of her own nails change. If Aziraphale hadn’t known that’s exactly what Gilgamesh was doing, he wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. Instead, it took him a moment to gather himself before he walked over to the couch and sat down.

Astraea immediately threw her feet down and rolled around to push up onto her hands and knees. She had immediately shifted entirely back to normal, and there was a frown etched into her little brows. She was too young to be learning to scowl so deeply, but Aziraphale thought they were too young for a lot of things. At the core, and he always reminded himself, they were children.

“I want alone,” Astraea said. “I told Daddy!”

“Daddy told me too,” Aziraphale assured. “I decided to come see what you were doing, regardless. Is it so wrong to want to spend time with my daughter?”

Astraea’s face softened. She crawled across the sofa to plop down with her face in Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale ran his fingers through her hair, then. It was back to being short and strawberry blonde. It was the length anyone might expect a child of her age to have, though it was much thicker. Aziraphale even thought that, perhaps, she was letting it grow out naturally instead of deciding how she wanted it to look. Gilgamesh’s hair was short, but it was certainly _styled_ , already. Just like Crowley’s hair, only wavier.

“Are you tired, love?” Aziraphale asked.

“No tired,” Astraea said. “Hungry.”

“Yes, it is about lunchtime, isn’t it? You and your brother have been doing an enormous amount of work, as well. I think we all deserve a bit of a treat, what do you say?”

“Fish,” was what she said.

“Yes, fish. We can do fish for lunch. Come along then, love.” Aziraphale reached down and scooped Astraea right off the cushions. She laid her head down on Aziraphale’s shoulder while he walked her into the kitchen; he set her down on the counter, once they’d arrived.

Not a moment later was Crowley bringing Gilgamesh down the stairs with an uncanny sort of timing. Gilgamesh was sat down, right next to Astraea, and they both shifted so they could face each other. Then, the shifting returned with a new bout of energy so they could show each other what they’d learned. As it was, neither one of them had learned to surpass the other.

By two and a half, shifting was second nature. Crowley and Aziraphale wouldn’t learn this in the most normal way, however. Most parents, say, when their child was to master the art of walking, would learn this by watching their child toddle across the room to them and fall into their arms. That hadn’t been the case for walking, and it wouldn’t be the case for shifting.

There wasn’t a time of year where Crowley didn’t dedicate some expensive amount of time to his garden. Even in the winter, they ensured things could grow. Crowley was growing accustomed to having fresh fruits and herbs right from the garden, and, he still had his original plants. They’d even taken to threatening the garden in his absence, and he was quite proud of their growth.

The summer was a bit of an easier time to care for the garden, though, as it was the more natural time to garden. In the winter, Crowley had to be very particular about what he planted and how he used his miracles. In the summer, the only thing he had to do was weed, water, and shout. It made for an easier time, and he did enjoy himself. Where Aziraphale would tuck himself into the library on some evenings, Crowley would escape into the garden. Astraea and Gilgamesh weren’t quite old enough, he said, to be poking around with sharp tools.

Crowley was inspecting a very large leaf when a movement in the garden caught his eye. He stared where the movement had been for a long time before returning to his plant. He always checked for leaf spots, for blight, or for aphids. His garden was to remain the most beautiful garden, and so he would endeavor to check for everything. However, there was that movement again. At first, he thought he’d maybe seen it out of the corner of his eye and mistaken something for it. Now, he knew otherwise.

There was something in the garden, and he was going to find it. He didn’t invite pests to live in his garden. Not aphids, not rats, not bugs. Unless the bugs were particularly good for the growth of his plants, they weren’t permitted entry. Bugs could cause more havoc and destruction than they were worth. Not even a caterpillar was allowed in Crowley’s garden, and this moving thing was certainly much larger than a caterpillar. The only issue was that Crowley could not find the beast, whatever it was.

It found him.

Crowley was suddenly shouting with his surprise and falling back as a _snake_ , of all things, jumped out at him from behind a bush. Crowley had reached for his nearest trowel, ready to bash the thing over the head and begone with it, but it was the _behavior_ of the snake that caught his eye. After it had jumped out and frightened him, it had stopped to coil its way around his ankle. Then, and only then, did Crowley put two and two, together.

“That’s not funny, Astraea,” he scowled. “You’re not even supposed to be out here; what in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Astraea _looked_ at him, and Crowley could have sworn he saw a smirk on her little snake mouth. It wasn’t fair, truly. She was certainly and irrefutably his daughter.

Crowley reached down for her and let her coil up around his arm, instead. It had been awhile since he’d seen her like this, in a full snake form. There was a moment where she and Gilgamesh had figured out that they didn’t have to become _full_ snakes, and that had been an interesting day. Astraea had lost her legs, and Gilgamesh had lost his top. However, things seemed different now.

“Look at how big you’ve grown,” Crowley marveled. He ran his fingers over her scales as she coiled, and grinned wide when her tongue poked out into his hand. He’d been distraught upon first seeing them like this: Astraea with her black scales and Gilgamesh with his white. Now, he felt a rush of pride.

“You’ve never seen Daddy as a snake, have you? I wonder if you’ll get so big. Now,” and Crowley shifted in the grass, so he was more comfortable, “I’ve got this ability to change my size as a snake, but my true form like that is really quite something. Would you like to see someday?”

Astraea, all snake, _nodded_ her head. Crowley grinned wide at her and ran his finger underneath her head. She wasn’t biting, anymore, which was definitely something to praise about.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Crowley mused.

He glanced up at the sound of the door to see Aziraphale standing on the porch with his very own situation at bay. Aziraphale had acquired a new scarf that was suspiciously snake shaped, suspiciously Gilgamesh colored. It must have been Gilgamesh, because Aziraphale was certainly smiling and holding up Gilgamesh’s head like he was the proudest mother in the world.

“It’s not so bad at all, Astra,” Crowley said, quieter. “It’s hard to hate what I am when it’s helped create two very lovely little people.”

Astraea preened at the comment and bumped her snout into Crowley’s cheek. From the porch, Aziraphale watched with a laughing smile.

Crowley deemed garden work done for the day, and they all went inside. The pleasant thing about being snake-shifters was that they weren’t actually snakes. They could actually be snakes, if they wanted to, but that came with a whole slew if consequences that even Crowley didn’t particularly care for, and he had a harder time getting rid of them. Gilgamesh and Astraea wouldn’t need heat lamps or special temperatures. They would be just fine as they were, and they proved it.

When Astraea was human, she’d called her little game _garden snake_. She’d seen it in a book, and Crowley was going to have to have a talk with Aziraphale about that later. It wasn’t that Astraea wanted to help garden, it was that she supremely enjoyed being able to slither around through the plants and periodically frighten Crowley. It was her little game, and she was dreadfully good at it.

Gilgamesh, on the other hand, was far less of a troublemaker. He liked to _hide_ when he was a snake. Often, it was because he was trying to get a good long nap in. That, or because it was a far more efficient way to eat. Both Gilgamesh and Astraea still ate like little monsters, and they were both starting to get tired all the same.

Eventually, when spring had rolled back around again in their third year, Crowley and Aziraphale were finally able to get them to bed in their true little faces, fully. There were no extra blemishes or dots or _limbs_ , which had been a terrifying day. They were, both, sound asleep. They’d seemingly taken their second year to master the art of shifting, and it had left them exhausted. The only issue there had been with sleeping was they didn’t need to breathe, much like their parents. Unlike their parents, they hadn’t quite understood the reason for _choosing_ to breathe.

Aziraphale hadn’t liked to watch them sleep longer than their first few months, when he realized that they didn’t breathe. It always left him a bit nervous, now, with all the shifting, it left him even more nervous. He stood by their cribs, trying to focus on how they would be needing _big kid_ beds soon, and looked down at them. Eventually, Crowley led him off to the master bedroom—they deserved a good night’s sleep too.

Crowley always wore his black silk pajamas to bed. They were some expensive set that he’d acquired so many years ago and had managed to keep intact for all this time. They were, truly, quite lovely. Aziraphale tended to opt for a night shirt, which had transformed into his night gown once he’d changed shapes, and for this night, he opted for just a shirt. It was always worth the hungry look Crowley passed him when Aziraphale crawled into bed wearing a button up and cotton blue panties.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale began, once he’d settled. “I have a question for you.”

“Ask away, angel. I’m all ears.” That was a dangerous phrase, now, because it had prompted the multiple limb problem of four months prior in which Gilgamesh had taken Crowley a bit too seriously.

“The twins, you see. They’ve, well—they’ve already come so far into their own.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, fully expecting this to turn into a conversation, again, about their promised war. “They’re doing quite well, I’d say.”

“Oh, yes, extremely. I was just curious, you know. Do you think, that is to say—do you think they’ll have wings, eventually?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley blinked. That hadn’t been what he was expecting. He was fully ready to gush on about his theory that these first few years were just them learning how to do things, and the next few years would be mastering them more. In fact, they still might have powers yet to come—Heaven seemed to be expecting the coming of a great threat, and two children who could change their features didn’t seem to live up to that. Not yet. Instead, Aziraphale had asked about _wings_.

“I mean, you know. You and I both have wings. We did _create them_ , together, I mean. It would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

“Possibly. Unless the whole wing thing canceled out, I suppose,” Crowley replied, not really believing himself.

“Do you think they may have chosen not to have wings?”

Crowley shrugged. “Seems possible. Lots of it seems possible. No way to really know.”

“No. No, I suppose not. I just wish we knew more about them.”

“Call them ineffable,” Crowley provided, a sly smile on his face. “They just aren’t for our knowing. We take care of them, we love them, and we provide for them. That’s all we need to know.”

Aziraphale offered his own, less than entirely believable, smile. He settled down, then, in the crook of Crowley’s arm.

“You make a wonderful father,” Aziraphale whispered.

“You’re a wonderful mother,” Crowley replied. He turned onto his side so he could fully wrap his arms around Aziraphale and hold him close. He pressed a kiss into Aziraphale’s forehead and settled down.

“Would I still be their mother if I were to revert to my previous form?” Aziraphale asked, nose crinkling.

“Seems to me that mother means you popped them out. Doesn’t matter what you look like, still qualifies in my book.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, good. It had been bothering me.”

Instead of replying, Crowley just held Aziraphale a little tighter. Of course, it had been bothering him. Why wouldn’t it have been bothering him? Aziraphale had so wonderfully enjoyed the prospect and the reality of _being_ a mother that he’d gotten too caught up in the logistics instead of the semantics of what the word truly meant. Aziraphale could look whatever form he wanted. He’d always be their mother.

The issue arose exactly four days later. The issue had been there the entire time, but it was only at four days that Aziraphale’s anxiety had gotten the better of him. Gilgamesh and Astraea had not woken up. For four days, they’d been sleeping. In fact, the only way that Aziraphale even knew they were _alive_ was because, periodically, when he’d gone into check on them, they were in different positions than they had been before. That, or their eyes were moving beneath their eyelids like they were dreaming. Occasionally, even, they’d make a noise.

They still hadn’t woken up. Even if Aziraphale knew that they were alive, from the very obvious fact that they _were_ alive, he couldn’t help himself. He was overtly, over the top, absolutely terrified. They hadn’t eaten or drank a drop in four days. They hadn’t so much as moved. If they were people, they _would_ be dead. They weren’t people. They weren’t human. All the self-reminders in the world weren’t saving Aziraphale from his fear that something had gone wrong.

He’d even tried to wake them. He’d gone into their room and shook them, gently, each in turn. He’d called for them, and he’d cried for them. Nothing seemed to work. Eventually, Crowley had huddled Aziraphale against his chest and pulled him out of the room. They didn’t make it farther than the hallway, but it was enough that Crowley could close the door to the nursery and let the twins their peace.

“How can you be so calm?!” Aziraphale suddenly lashed out. “They’re—how do you know something hasn’t gone wrong?”

“I don’t,” Crowley frowned. “They’ve seemed pretty able to handle themselves so far. We just have to trust that they know what they’re doing.”

“They’re _children_ , Crowley! They’re three-years old! Most three-years olds are barely learning how to walk and talk and draw circles—” Aziraphale stopped short.

Crowley gripped onto his shoulders to steady him. “I know. They’re not most three-year olds, are they?”

“They’re _my_ three-year olds,” Aziraphale amended. He sniffed and fought valiantly against his tears, but they were already falling.

“Yes, they are. As such, I think they’ve got a good one-up on the whole dying thing. They’re strong little beasts, don’t you know that?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m still worried, Crowley.”

“I know you are.” Crowley ran his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheek to brush away his tear. “I’m worried too, dove. We have to trust them, though. We have to believe they know what they’re doing.”

“It’s been so long—”

“I slept for half a century once, remember? After that whole spat, we had back in the eighteen-hundreds?”

Aziraphale blinked, scrubbed at his eyes, then nodded. “I do.”

“Four days is nothing compared to that. They’re just resting, dove, alright? They’ve done a lot of work these past three years. They deserve a touch of sleep.”

“What should we do in the meantime?”

Crowley shrugged. “Lots of things we could do. We could go to the store, for one. Maybe out to dinner? I’m sure they’ll be fine. Maybe we could even have a night to ourselves.” Crowley offered the gentlest of smirks. “A little bit of whine, some of that music you like. Wouldn’t mind to maybe do you on the sofa—”

“Crowley, that’s absolutely crass.”

“Means the kids won’t hear,” Crowley tried. “I know how loud you like to get.”

Aziraphale’s face went flush, but he agreed. It had been quite a time since he and Crowley had any sort of private time. It might be nice to let the children take their nap and spend time, together, instead. Crowley was certainly making a good argument of it, the way that his hands were ghosting over Aziraphale’s body already. Even beneath his clothes, Crowley knew exactly were Aziraphale wanted to be touched.

“Maybe you could put on one of those fifties’ dresses you loved so much,” Crowley suggested. Aziraphale gave him a look, and just like that, he was sold.

Nothing would ever, truly, alleviate Aziraphale’s fear save seeing Gilgamesh and Astraea awake again. It had been nearly six months, and they were still sleeping soundly. The notable difference was that they were starting to breathe, now; Aziraphale was sure it was because they had heard his fretful cry in the hallway, and that was alright with him. Even in sleep, they didn’t want to cause a worry. It was sweet. A touch bit strange, but it was certainly sweet.

Aziraphale had taken back up reading his favorite novels on the sofa while the food channel played in the background. Crowley gardened, as he did, and he’d picked up his own hobby. Crowley had been friends with artists and painters in the past; he figured it was high time that he gave it his own shot. He’d set up his work in the living room, of course, so he could enjoy the white noise of the television and still be around to listen if Aziraphale had something to say.

Crowley wasn’t particularly _good_ at painting, but all things came with practice. He was sure even some of the best painters hadn’t been very good when they’d started out. It was the learning curve of having never done something for the first time, and very much like a person, Crowley was just going to have to figure out the skills on his own. He could just miracle amazing art onto his canvas, but it wasn’t quite the same. In hindsight, he could have started with something like sketching, though. He had a perfectly good model lying out on his sofa, anyway.

They’d entirely forgotten about lunch, even with the food channel playing. Humans tended to get hungry when they watched food channels; it was the allure of seeing beautiful laid out food. Something about it just made them hungry. Aziraphale and Crowley had never experienced this before, and even with food on the television, lunch didn’t seem important. Aziraphale was wrapped up in one of his old Pratchett novels, and Crowley was figuring out how to mix paint into colors other than brown.

That didn’t last long. Crowley only looked away from his canvas when he’d heard Aziraphale’s sudden shout. That had been enough to pull Aziraphale away from his book, too. The shout had been first of shock, then of slight pain, and then of absolutely _excitement_.

“Oh! Gilgamesh, Astraea—what in the Heavens? Oh, my!” Aziraphale laughed. They’d quite literally popped out of the air and directly onto his stomach. Aziraphale had sat up so he could put his arms around the both of them. “Crowley, dear, please come over!”

Crowley was already on his way. He sat sideways on the sofa behind them, watching with a wide smile as Aziraphale pressed kisses into the twins’ heads in quick succession, then again. Aziraphale had missed them so much, and it was clear, from the way that they had both clung to him, that the twins had missed him too. It was only when they were finished basking in each other that Crowley got a chance to hold them both.

“They’ve just appeared!” Aziraphale continued. “Oh, can you believe it? They can teleport!”

“That’ll be a fun one to mess with,” Crowley muttered. He smoothed his hand down through Astraea’s hair; it had gotten longer. “You two must be careful with that, yes?”

“It’s stupid,” Astraea replied. “Makes me tired. Don’t want to do it again.”

“Me neither,” Gilgamesh replied. “Complicated. Not fun.”

Crowley wore a dopey smile and kissed them both on the head. “How about we whip up some lunch for you both, then?”

“Lunch!” they both shouted, in perfect unison.

There were many games in which a person, beast, or other could only have so many spells and powers at their disposal. If they wanted more, they had to remove others or forget them. Gilgamesh and Astraea weren’t about to actively forget how to teleport, but they’d learned that it was an unpleasant experience. It was, in essence, the dismantling of their physical corporations, only to build them back up together somewhere else. It seemed like too easy a thing to get lost in. They wouldn’t forget, but they would take it off the shelf in turn for learning something else, should the ability arise.

At five years old, Gilgamesh and Astraea had learned to work the television on their own. They could work the movie player, too. It seemed to be the fastest way to learn about the world they’d been rudely deposited into, even if not everything they would witness was entirely the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At five years old, Crowley and Aziraphale had been reluctant to let them have free reign of the television, but the twins had insisted that if they had to watch another cooking show, they would both go absolutely mental.

That had been enough convincing, because it proved they’d been _watching_ the television far longer than they knew what it was or how to work it. In that time, Crowley and Aziraphale had certainly watched some things that children didn’t need to see. It had been an easy mistake. Any parent would just assume an infant wasn’t smart enough, aware enough, or had memory enough to remember watching violent crime on late night television. These two particular parents had been wrong, but they didn’t just have any children, either.

Astraea and Gilgamesh had made it their goal to watch everything once. There were movies, shows, and documentaries. They like documentaries the best; Aziraphale liked that, too. It brought back out the reality that they were children in the way Gilgamesh would shriek when he saw a turtle on the television. They had quickly become his favorite animal. That sort of excitement was definitely indicative of _children_ , which Aziraphale and Crowley were still desperate for their twins to be.

The constant television had unforeseen consequences. One might have thought it would affect the twins’ sleep habits or their want to do other, less electric things. It hadn’t. They still both slept more than Crowley ever had, ate like absolute beasts, and spent their time away from the telly as much as they did with the telly. The unforeseen consequence had been a very strange question that arose near the end of spring, which was a coincidentally timed thing for their question.

“What’s school?” they’d both asked, simultaneously, over a night of Chinese.

Truth be told, Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t know much of that answer, themselves. School was just one of those human things that happened. They’d never needed school, not when things just worked for them because they’d believed they would work. That very fact almost made education their enemy, but they were strictly an angel and a demon. Gilgamesh and Astraea could have been anything, entirely.

“It’s a place where humans go to learn things,” Aziraphale eventually replied. “You see, human children advance at a much slower age than the two of you, have. There’s much that they don’t know, and they’re sent to school to learn it.”

“What do they learn?” Astraea asked.

“Do they learn what we do?” Gilgamesh’s face lit up. “Snakes and changing and stuff?”

“No,” Crowley interjected. “Humans don’t do anything that we do, which is why we tend to stay away from them. They don’t do any shifting. They have to eat and sleep—and breathe,” Crowley added, because that wasn’t so optional for humans. “Some of them don’t even believe beings like your Mum and I exist.”

“Demons and angels,” Astraea helpfully supplied. “We were told demons and angels cause problems.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

“Who told you that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Astraea shrugged. “Just knew that from before.”

Aziraphale blinked. He assumed she meant from before they were born, and she did. She remembered that particular piece of information from the strange darkness they’d lived in before, even if she didn’t know what it meant or who had provided it to her. Gilgamesh seemed to entirely agree with her.

“Should we go to school?” Gilgamesh changed the subject. He hadn’t seemed to notice, or care, how disturbed both Crowley and Aziraphale looked at the comment.

“I don’t see why you would,” Crowley shrugged. “If you want to, I’m sure we could find a place for you to go.”

Astraea stuck out her tongue. “What’s good school? We don’t need to learn.”

“Could meet some people!” Gilgamesh supplied, excitedly. “We could have friends, like they do on the telly.”

“I already have my friend,” Astraea replied. Gilgamesh could not hide just how pleased that made him to hear. “I don’t need anymore.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to maybe try for a day,” Aziraphale chimed in. “Perhaps, just to see what it’s like? It could be good for you to understand how humans work together. It’s been a very interesting lesson for your father and I to learn, I will tell you that.”

Astraea and Gilgamesh agreed, albeit reluctantly. A few miracles here and there then they were not only enrolled in school but had all of the things they _needed_ for school. It seemed a worthy experiment, at least for a day.

And it lasted for only a day.

The other children had quickly decided Astraea and Gilgamesh were very, very strange individuals. They didn’t need to learn the things that the other children needed to learn. They could both already spell, write, and read. They knew the things that other children didn’t know. And, they didn’t _need_ the other children.

Astraea, who was already certain Gilgamesh would be her friend whether he wanted to or not, had no issues breaking down the classroom on that first and only day. Even while the dark little boy she’d stood up for adored her for everything that she was, the _teacher_ had decided that Astraea was too much of a problem. She’d spent most of the day in time out, where her new friend—Derrek, his name was—had sneaked her some food. As per the teacher’s orders, Gilgamesh was to be kept as far away from Astraea as possible.

After both coming home in equal rage as they were in tears, Crowley had snapped his fingers and undone it all. There would be no school for his children, and they seemed entirely happy with that decision. Especially when that decision had an equally exciting consequence, the following day.

Aziraphale had put little desks in the library, and he’d acquired a few books that would help them learn the more difficult things like the maths and sciences. They clearly didn’t mesh well with children their own age because they were so much older, on the inside—even if they had their moments where there was no doubt that they were children. Their minds ran faster than their bodies did, and it was very clear.

“We’ll home school you,” Aziraphale declared. He’d given them each a notebook of his own collection, still empty, and little pencils. He’d ensured to get the fun pencils with little characters on them so that Gilgamesh and Astraea could still have a bit of fun.

“School’s bad,” Astraea said, but she was very entranced with her little bunny pencil.

“Yes, but this won’t be school. This will be home where I teach you some things, is that alright? It might even be challenging.” Aziraphale hoped it would be challenging, anyway. Astraea seemed a destructive type when she didn’t have something to do, and Gilgamesh was a wild card, still.

“I like challenges,” Astraea perked up. “And Gil is good at them!”

“I am,” he professed. “Home school sounds more fun.”

“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale assured. “We’ll give it the same trial that we gave real school, alright? If you don’t like it after today, we’ll never do it again.”

They both _did_ like home schooling, even if it had been the eventual trigger for learning that Astraea could shoot fire from her fingertips. Aziraphale hadn’t even had a chance to panic before Gilgamesh did the same, only it was _water_. They canceled each other out just as much as they fed off one another.

If Aziraphale hadn’t been afraid before, he certainly was now. Crowley couldn’t help but think back to the first time they’d met with Anathema and she’d described the horror of their auras. Like things the world had never seen before.

Crowley had been correct about one thing. Astraea and Gilgamesh had learned everything they needed to learn in their first years, and the rest of their time working towards mastering the things they had learned. First, it had been their human things like walking and talking, reading and writing. Then, it had been their shifting, whether that was their human form or down into snakes. Then, it was the fact that they had _powers_. Much in the way that Crowley and Aziraphale had.

At five, they’d revealed their fire and water ability, respectively. At six, Astraea had performed her first miracle. Gilgamesh had followed a few days later with _his_ first miracle. By seven, they were no longer accidentally miracling turtles into the bathtub. They were doing it on purpose. By eight, their miracles and powers had gotten a bit more advanced. Gilgamesh found that water had more than one form, even if water was the most natural for him. Astraea had found that fire was not just for burning things in the back yard, but for providing warmth.

By nine, Aziraphale and Crowley were starting to get worried. They’d crown up so incredibly quickly that it was almost a horror show right in front of their eyes. Gilgamesh and Astraea had neither reached even four and a half feet tall, but they were both growing. Gilgamesh was already proving that he would win in the height department, with his inch advantage. Astraea didn’t seem to care, however. What she would lack in size she would make up for with fire—literally, in some cases.

At ten, their time was done.

It was the first time that Aziraphale and Crowley had ever thought to take the twins out to do something. They’d spent the majority of ten years to themselves, in the cottage, and they hadn’t wanted for anything more. It had been something of a wild ride, and the promise of fresh air would do them quite well. The plan was to stop by the store before going out to the park to play and have a picnic.

The picnic would be the first one that Astraea and Gilgamesh worked together to create, in such a way that it would just be in the back of the Bentley when the time was right. They were excited.

The trip to the store was to get a few things that they needed. Both of them wanted sunglasses, and rather than work to create the perfect pair, they’d get to pick their own pair off of the shelf. Aziraphale also needed a few things for his crafting hobbies. Things for that were so much more fun to pick out at the store than they were to buy online or to just miracle. Half of the fun was, quite honestly, the experience. These were inevitably just excuses, though. The real purpose was just taking Astraea and Gilgamesh out to see how they enjoyed it.

The store was one of those large, big-box stores that would make their trip a one-stop trip. Crowley had been to it before; he’d known the demon who’d had a great hand in these big-box corporations being what they were. It only felt polite to support her amazing work. The store was large and boxy, just as its name would imply, but it was nearly empty.

It seemed there was a lack of employees just as well as there was a lack of customers. When a store that large was empty, it was hard not to notice it, even if Crowley wanted to just say it was one of those days. Sometimes, the stores were empty. Usually, they were empty on days of incredibly bad weather. Usually, they were empty when they were closed. It was sunshine and bright outside, and the store was most definitely open. There was really no explanation for its emptiness, and Crowley didn’t like it.

“Please, dear,” Aziraphale scoffed. “Everyone is just out enjoying the sunlight. It’s not often we get a day as beautiful as today is, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s strange. Never seen the place like this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have. Maybe not recently, but it’s definitely been this empty before.”

“Right,” Crowley muttered.

If Aziraphale was correct, it was just _coincidence_ that there seemed to be people around, but they were never around where the family was. Ever. It was like watching a person with their cart turn down an aisle, and then, upon following down the aisle, it was like they’d never been there at all. It was eerie. It was wrong. They continued to shop against Crowley’s better judgment.

He remembered a time like this, when he thought he saw people that weren’t there. The strange, heavy blanket of being watched. Like someone was always just around the corner, waiting for his arrival. It had happened before the twins had ever been born. It had happened right at their conception, in the same time where Raguel had revealed herself to Aziraphale. Heaven had never been the only ones watching.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered, stopping the cart. Astraea and Gilgamesh were freely walking on their own, but they stopped too. “We need to go.”

“Crowley, we discussed this—” but Aziraphale saw it then, too.

At the end of their aisle was something no less than a _demon_. It was no demon that Crowley recognized, but all four of them could tell that it was a powerful demon. It was a demon who had been sent after them. It was proof that Heaven wasn’t the only one looking. It was proof that they had never _stopped_ looking. Then, the demon started to stalk forward. In his wake, thorns grew from the ground.

“Ten years,” the demon hissed. “Ten years it takes to find out that the fucks upstairs _fucked_ up again. Are we surprised? Were we ever!?” in the boom of his voice, the ground cracked, the floor of the aisle split open.

Crowley reached down on instinct and scooped Gilgamesh right up into his arms. Aziraphale had Astraea. Fuck the cart and the things they’d grabbed—they’d come back later, when the store wasn’t _quite_ so demon infested.

“We were _told_ that you were dealt with!” The demon shouted. “When they found out what that bitch did? She’s not going to last long—neither will these fucking _brats_. Hand’em over, Crawly! It’s time to come back for your reckoning!” and the thorns pulled out of the ground in a rush, in a quake.

When Crowley turned to lead their escape—because they had to escape, there was no sense in fighting—their path was blocked by more thorns, sprouting _fire_ now. He turned back just as quickly, his wings sprouting to guard them from the sudden flames. The flames didn’t reach; Gilgamesh wouldn’t let them.

“Can we _please_ go now?” Crowley hissed.

“You’re not going anywhere, Crawly! Hand over the brats and we’ll be sure to be _merciful_. Maybe we won’t even kill your whore. I’m sure our Unholy Father is looking for a new brood mother, don’t you think?!”

Crowley gritted down on his teeth, trying to refrain from fighting back. He had more important things to worry about than his pride, or even Aziraphale’s _honor_. They had children. They had _children_ , and they would always be more important. As much as Crowley would love to unleash Hell Fire on this demon and show him just _who_ was more powerful, he couldn’t. Running was their only option. It was the only option that ensured their children would be safe—even if nothing could guarantee that, anymore.

Hell had found them.

“Hand them over and maybe we don’t douse you in Holy Water!” the demon shouted again. “Spend the rest of your days rotting in the deepest pits, but you’ll be alive!”

The problem with demons was how terribly uncreative they were. The demon couldn’t contain the nasty smile that split across his face, and it was the only indicator that Crowley needed. He would have never handed them over, no matter the promises, but these promises were empty. Crowley knew what the demon was thinking, just what _eternity_ he was looking forward it. It was an eternity where Crowley would rather just be doused in Holy Water; he didn’t want to live in a world where his children were dead, and the entirety of Hell was using his Aziraphale like breeding fodder.

They’d make him watch.

They’d make him _participate._

Just before the flames grew too much for Gilgamesh to combat with his water, Crowley took off into the air. Aziraphale followed not a second behind, his wings suddenly pulling out in the after-winds of Crowley’s initial jump. Crowley was one of the _only_ demons who still had wings, and it was the only surefire way this demon couldn’t follow them. With one arm, Crowley kept a tight grip on Gilgamesh, and with his second, he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand.

They burst out through a window that ran along the highest point of the walls, and the demon couldn’t follow them. The only hope was that the demon _still_ didn’t know where they lived. Heaven and Hell would find them, but the cottage would always be safe. They’d worked too hard to make it safe for it to be under fire, now. Crowley wouldn’t let it.

That was where they flew, too high for any humans to catch sight of them in their retreat. They didn’t speak any words, the four of them. They listened only to the loud cries of the wind and the subtle beating of unneeded, unnecessary hearts.

It was only when they landed, when they were safe inside the cottage, that anyone bothered to do anything. Gilgamesh and Astraea were set down, and Crowley immediately looked over both of them to ensure that they were okay. Even through his own pain that had shot up through his back, where his scars always hurt, he was more concerned with them. They were both in tears, but they were unharmed. Then, Crowley checked Aziraphale. They stared at each other for only the briefest of seconds before Crowley pulled Aziraphale into him.

“I’d never let them have you,” Crowley growled. “I’d die before I let a thing happen to you.”

The terrifying part was that Aziraphale believed him.

That night, Crowley was the only one who didn’t go to sleep. Instead, he stayed up with the television blaring on in front of him in bright colors, no sounds. He watched, in horror, as the news flared up in the middle of his program. He’d been up thinking of what to do. It had been an urgent sort of thought: how would they ensure the safety of their children? First, he had to figure out how Hell had found them. But the news made everything all the more urgent.

Several storms had risen up in the Atlantic. Not only storms, but hurricanes, tsunamis—horrible disasters that would hopefully never see the shore. The reporter didn’t seem optimistic. Nobody seemed optimistic. It wasn’t even the storms that had set the sudden alert off—an alert that appeared in several times. An American gave the report. A British man gave the report. An Indian. Japanese. Chinese. African—every culture, language, and look that Crowley could imagine scrolled by on this screen for anyone and everyone who could hear it.

A tower had just crashed from the skies into the middle of the Atlantic. Anyone who lived near a coastline was advised, encouraged, and _begged_ to get further inland. And then came the video of the tower. And Crowley knew exactly what tower that was.

Many people would never believe that Hell and Heaven were so close and so tangible. Many people would never believe that Heaven and Hell had just come to earth. No one would believe that the End Times had just begun—again.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL
> 
> AND ALSO
> 
> I'M NOT EVEN THE LEAST BIT SORRY -THROWS THIS CHAPTER AND RUNS-

It had been the hardest decision Crowley had ever come to, but it was a necessary decision. Somehow, the thought of sharing his decision was worse than the actual agony he’d gone through to come to it. Somehow, standing in front of Aziraphale, finally, was the worst of it all. He knew he would eventually have to share his plan, but it wasn’t a pleasant plan. Nothing about this was pleasant. It was the only way.

Aziraphale cried. Crowley kept his tears to himself and wore something so close to a frown that he looked _angry_. He wouldn’t cry. Not yet. He had some calls to make before he could cry. While he made those calls, Aziraphale would straighten himself out before ensuring that the children were ready to go. The late hour didn’t matter. They had to go now, while Aziraphale and Crowley were still tight enough together that they could bear the consequences of what they were about to do.

Aziraphale backed them both their own little bag. It had clothes, their toiletries, and their blankets. Each of them would have preferred to carry their little stuffed toys, and Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to insist otherwise. He didn’t even have the heart to tell them where they were going, only that it was a fun, late night trip in the Bentley. Unfortunately, white lies didn’t work so well on twins who were smarter than that, but they were also smart enough to see the look in Aziraphale’s eyes. How much, whatever was going on, pained him.

“Mummy?” Gilgamesh said, just before they left the room. Aziraphale stopped to look down at him.

“What is it, love?” Aziraphale asked, quietly. Brokenly.

“I love you.” Gilgamesh offered a weak smile.

“Hey! Me, too!” Astraea piped up. “I love Mummy, too!”

Aziraphale couldn’t bear anything but cracking the softest of smiles. He knelt down to pull them both into a hug, tightly. There was only so much that he could do. Holding them wasn’t going to resolve the issue, but he wished it would. He wished that, somehow, holding them close would be enough to keep them safe. Btu Crowley was right. If they waited any longer, they risked welcoming the Legions of Hell and the Armies of Heaven straight to their doorstep.

They met Crowley out by the Bentley, who had ensured that it would be warm for their late-night ride. It was just the beginning of spring, but the nights were still plenty chilly. The children were still in their pajamas, too, having been woken for this nighttime ride.

Aziraphale helped the kids get settled into the back seat while Crowley settled in the front. He always set his phone up on the visor to make it an easy use while he was driving; he didn’t want to give away too much, too soon. The less everyone knew, the better. Ignorance would be their shield, as it would keep them safe. If something were to happen, for all intents and purposes, not all of them knew the entirety of the plan. All they knew was the part that they’d been stuck with.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley played Queen because he wanted to. The Bentley didn’t do it on its own anymore, but Crowley needed to fill the silence. He needed to fill the silence with something familiar and quiet enough not to bother anyone. He could already see, in the rear-view mirror, that Astraea and Gilgamesh were ready for bed and had no care of car-time manners. Astraea had wriggled out of her seat belt so she could lay down with her head in Gilgamesh’s lap.

Crowley regretted ever having to make this choice, seeing that, but he had to keep driving.

The first stop was easy. It was memorable. It was familiar. Aziraphale even recognized it before he’d known where they were going, and he gave Crowley a strange look for it. They were in Tadfield. They hadn’t been in Tadfield for quite some time but returning made part of it clear. Crowley hadn’t been entirely specific when he’d mentioned his plan, but Aziraphale understood, all at once. All he could do was curl against the car door and try to ignore it.

Eventually, Aziraphale even recognized where they were. The little cottage. Anathema and Newton’s cottage. Crowley pulled to a rolling stop just outside their gate and looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale just glanced at him but said nothing. Crowley needed to do this alone; Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to keep himself together for it.

Crowley crawled out of the Bentley and shifted things around as he needed to, to get to Astraea. He grabbed her bag, her little cat toy, and eventually: her. He didn’t take her to the gate, and he didn’t walk her up the path. Instead, he plopped her down on her feet, on the pavement, and set her things down, too. She held her cat toy for dear life, still sucking on her thumb—they hadn’t gotten that worked out of her, yet—and looked at Crowley expectantly.

Astraea had never once tried to make her eyes more human. She’d always let the entirety of them be gold, and in the night like this, Crowley couldn’t look away from them. They were like shining, horrifying lights. Astraea was a beautiful, perfectly little girl, and Crowley couldn’t have been prouder to be her father. And he was about to give her away.

“Astraea,” Crowley whispered, his hands around her face. “Daddy loves you, you know that, don’t you?”

Astraea nodded.

“I would do absolutely anything for you and your brother, to make sure that you’re safe. You remember the store, don’t you?”

Astraea nodded again.

“There are very bad people trying to find you two.”

“It’s the demons and the angels,” Astraea said. “I told you, they cause problems.”

“I know, little girl, I know. You’re not ready to face off against demons and angels, I promise. I just want to keep you safe. That’s all I want to do.”

Astraea nodded. “I’ll be safe, Daddy. I promise.”

“I know.” Crowley pulled her into him, his arms wrapped around her tightly.

She didn’t seem to understand what this meant, and that was perfectly alright with Crowley. He didn’t want either of them to realize what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it; it was the only way that they could stay safe. Crowley hadn’t been lying when he said he would die to keep them safe, and this was killing him.

“Alright, sweetie,” Crowley said, when he pulled away. “Black hair for Daddy, okay?”

Astraea had long hair now. It was long and wavy, and Aziraphale had always helped her pin her bangs back so they wouldn’t bother her. It was usually that bright strawberry blonde she’d picked out for herself before she’d been more than a ball of energy. Then, it started to bleed black when Crowley picked up her and her things.

The walk to the gate was slow. The walk through the yard was slower. At the end of it, Anathema and Newton were standing at the open doorway, both still dressed in their nighttime clothes. Crowley’s call had been unexpected and heavy, but Anathema had answered. She’d said she would. It’s what she’d promised when she’d wanted to be their godmother. The only issue was that she couldn’t just take them both. Nobody would be safe like that, and Crowley wouldn’t dare put Anathema and Newton in danger.

By the time Crowley reached them, Astraea looked more like Anathema than she looked like Crowley, and Crowley tried hard to ignore it, as he handed her over. Anathema took Astraea, and Newton took Astraea’s things. Crowley gave Astraea one last little kiss on her forehead and squeezed her hand.

“We’ll take care of her,” Anathema said. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I do,” Crowley responded. “If someone comes for her—” he stopped. He wanted to say _just let them have her_ , but, how could he? It would save Anathema and Newton’s lives, if they just gave her up. That didn’t make it fair. None of it was fair. Instead, Crowley just shut his mouth about the subject.

“You be good, Astra,” Crowley said. “We’ll be back for you soon.”

By the time Crowley made it back to the Bentley, he was fighting back tears. He’d just passed his daughter, his _only_ daughter, off to people he barely spoke to. On a prayer. Crowley had done all of this based on a _theory_ that he had, and that was the worst of all of it. Just because he believed it would all work one day didn’t mean it would.

It’d made sense, when he thought about it. Astraea and Gilgamesh were supposed to have been one being, and they weren’t. The closer they were, the more powerful they were, the more they _looked_ like that one being they used to be. The appearance of a demon wasn’t coincidental—it just bolstered Crowley’s theory. They were starting to look more like they did when they’d been one creature, and it was putting them in danger. Crowley figured if they could be separated, there was a chance they’d be safe.

He didn’t want to think about the alternative if they weren’t safe. He’d seen Heaven kill kids, before. He’d seen Hell do it, too.

“Where’s my sister?” Gilgamesh asked, once they’d starting driving.

“Go on to sleep, Gil,” Crowley gritted out. His voice had cracked, but he ignored it. “We’ll see her soon.”

Gilgamesh accepted that for the lie it was and settled into the side of the car. Sleeping was the only thing that seemed right, and he went off to it immediately. Once he had, Crowley reached up to his phone to dial in a recent number. The number didn’t have a name attached, but Crowley’s phone had been able to call it because he _needed_ it to, desperately.

_It_ _’s three in the morning_. The voice on the other side of the phone.

“Yeah, I know. Listen, it’s your favorite demon.”

_I figured you_ _’d be calling again._

“We’ll be there in about ten minutes, if you’re still up for this.”

_About as up for it as I_ _’ll ever be. There’s not really anyone else you can go to who’d understand, anyway._

“I would if there was an option.”

There was silence for a moment, then: _We don_ _’t mind, really. Just a bit curious as to how you’ve shortened the trip._

“A little demonic miracle,” Crowley replied. He hung up soon after.

After said little demonic miracle, they had driven through a tunnel of pure, occult force. It had landed them on a different road, in a different place, in the same time. It was still just after three in the morning, but they were far from Tadfield, and far from their South Downs cottage. They were driving through Edinburgh.

It took them exactly ten minutes to arrive at their destination, and it looked like a flat complex. The way they had pulled up, Aziraphale could already see just who Crowley had called, though he hadn’t recognized the voice, he recognized the person. At the door of the flat, Aziraphale saw a very grown up Adam and Pepper—he remembered them well, from the time Armageddon had almost happened. It made sense that Crowley had chosen to call the Anti-Christ. Who else would understand the peculiarities of a supernatural child?

Once Gilgamesh was out of the car, Crowley set him down on the ground just as he had with Astraea. He held Gilgamesh with his hands around his waist and looked at him very closely. Gilgamesh, who was picking up on things a bit faster, squeezed his stuffed turtle into his chest and just shook his head.

“Be good until we come back, okay, Gil?” Crowley asked.

“I don’t want you to go,” Gilgamesh said, his voice just as broken.

“I know, little man, I know. It’s better this way.”

“I can’t feel her,” Gilgamesh said. “Where’s my sister?”

“Safe. She’s safe. It’s better this way. They can’t find you like this.” Crowley pulled Gilgamesh closer and held him tightly. “We’ll come back for you, alright?”

“Soon!” Gilgamesh said, squeezing his arms around Crowley’s neck. “You have to come back soon, Daddy.”

“I will,” Crowley whispered. They both knew it was a lie.

Crowley scooped Gilgamesh up off the ground and walked him up the stones of the complex. Just like he’d done for Astraea, he whispered a new hair color for Gilgamesh to take. By the time they reached Adam and Pepper, Gilgamesh’s hair was a soft chestnut brown. Just like Adam’s.

“This is Gilgamesh,” Crowley introduced. “Gil, this is Adam and Pepper. Daddy knew them from a long time ago. They’re going to watch out for you.”

Gilgamesh looked over at them and certainly didn’t seem impressed. He held onto Crowley tighter, but Crowley passed him over to Adam like his hands were burnt. It was better to rip off the bandage than to sit there and act like there was another solution. There wasn’t. Not one that he could come up with, and he was the only demon with imagination.

“He won’t get in your way,” Crowley said. “Just make sure he has something to eat, and he’s pretty self-sufficient.”

“He’s ten,” Adam said, dumbly.

“A very special ten, yeah. Just—thanks.”

Adam nodded. Pepper mustered the best grin that she could. Crowley left.

When Crowley made it back to the car, he gripped onto the steering wheel with such a force that his knuckles turned white. Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him, and Crowley didn’t blame him. He’d just given away their children. He’d separated their twins and handed them off. Maybe the intentions were good, but it was a horrible, empty feeling. Like he’d torn apart of himself out and left it on the floor. It was no doubt that Aziraphale felt the same, or even worse—he’d known the children for far longer. The bond must have been deeper.

“We’ll drive the way back,” Crowley muttered. “It’s about eight hours, but I think we could use the drive.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

By the time they arrived back at the cottage, nothing had changed but the unholy feeling of emptiness. The cottage was dark, and with toys still spread out in the living area, it felt lonely. Aziraphale barely made it past the entranceway before he froze up in the middle of the floor. He’d been unable to say anything through the entirety of their night, and now he was caught up in just what they had done. They had left their children with people they, realistically, barely knew. Aziraphale had _agreed_ to it.

Crowley entered, eventually, and closed the front door behind them. He didn’t make it any farther into the house than Aziraphale had, who whirled around on his heels to bash his fists into Crowley’s chest. He grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his jacket, his eyes equal parts terror as they were anger, sadness. Aziraphale was _distraught_ , and Crowley didn’t blame him.

“How could you do this?!” Aziraphale shouted. “How could you just—we left them! We tore them apart and we just _left_ them! How can you even know this will protect them?! Aren’t they safer with us? Aren’t they safer here?!”

Crowley responded by just wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and holding him tightly.

“It’s not fair, Crowley!”

“It’s not.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went a little wide. Crowley sounded _shattered_. He sounded broken. He sounded like he had finally fallen apart just enough that the tears were flowing freely, and he hadn’t even had thought enough to wear his sunglasses.

It was after that horrid realization, that Crowley was just as affected by this—he was only trying to stay strong—that Aziraphale softened. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and held him just as tight. They weren’t going to be alone in this, and they couldn’t try to make it that way. Yelling and fighting was only going to make this worse. Crowley had lost his children just as much as Aziraphale had. None of it was fair. None of it was right. But it was the only solution when the great powers at be decided to hunt kids.

Astraea had been left just enough toys to keep her happy; the less miracles the better. She certainly hadn’t stopped herself from whipping up her own little bed in the little room she was provided. The room looked like a re-purposed office, in which there were electronics on one side and tomes on the other. In the middle, beneath the window, Astraea had snapped her fingers and appeared a bed. Behind her, Anathema and Newton stared at the sudden burst of magic like it was strange.

And it was.

The first night would be the most difficult night for Astraea. Even where she wanted to hide under her blanket and hold her little cat toy close, to do nothing but sleep, sleep wouldn’t come. Gilgamesh would be having the exact same feeling, because it was the beginning of creeping things up the back of their necks. Where, with less than a year until they were to come into their full power, things were starting to slip into place. They would just begin to understand how things were put together and what role they played, even if those roles were, due to a very strange split, slightly modified.

By the time morning had come, Astraea hadn’t slept a wink. She’d stared at the wall, the entire night, as flashes of a stark white world rolled through her mind. Pristine. Proper. Pretty. All of the things that Astraea would be so good at burning down, destroying. She wanted to leave it dirty. She was _made_ to leave it ruined. She’d been given fire and a perfect, white slate.

At the promise of breakfast, and only at that breakfast, did Astraea pull herself out of bed that first day. She would get her tour of the little cottage eventually, but first, introductions were in order. Astraea pulled herself up onto a chair, at the table, and sat her little cat toy in her lap. In turn, Newton served a plate in front of her of freshly cooked pancakes topped with whipped cream. There was a side of sausage, which Astraea had always preferred to bacon.

“Your, uh, dad said it was your favorite,” Newton tried, a bit nervously. “We hoped it’d help you feel a bit better here.”

“You probably don’t remember us,” Anathema chimed in. She served her own plate and Newton’s plate before sitting down. “We were there when you were born, you know.”

Astraea nodded. She picked up her fork and poked at her breakfast with it. She couldn’t deny she was hungry, but these weren’t _Daddy_ _’s_ pancakes. She could already tell by looking.

“Well, I’m Anathema.”

“Newton, but you could call me Newt? If you like, anyway. A lot of people do.” Newton offered her a strained smile.

“Astraea,” Astraea replied. “Daddy calls me Astra.”

“That’s a very beautiful name.” Anathema’s smile was just as strained. It became very clear, very quickly, that neither of them was quite sure what to do with a ten-year old.

The first day was the hardest day, but it turned out to be the only hard day, too. Even though Astraea had figured out, relatively quickly, that Crowley and Aziraphale were not coming back for her anytime soon, she settled in well. It was her first true time on her own, and she was going to experience it in the best way she could. Not only that, but it was an experience with _humans_. They were strange humans, she thought, but they were humans. They were humans that her parents trusted enough to leave Astraea with them, so they must have been worth something.

Astraea called it a learning experience and perked up quickly. Newton went to work at odd hours, whenever he was needed, but Anathema was home most of the day. Astraea found out rather quickly that she _liked_ Anathema, and she remembered Anathema. There was no child on the face of the earth who would remember their own birth who was not Astraea or Gilgamesh. Astraea remembered all of it in scary detail, like she remembered most things, and Anathema was one of those details.

They didn’t talk about it; Astraea was afraid it would make her too strange to be around. But it had been an integral part of the quick way that Astraea had warmed up. Anathema had been there from the beginning, technically, so Astraea wanted to do what she could in return. One might have called it a child’s way of reconciling a bad situation, and that may very well have been the truth. It worked, and that was all that mattered.

Much like Crowley hadn’t, Anathema did not enjoy the game of _garden snake_. Anathema hadn’t been told, at all, that Astraea could become a snake. It was one of those little details that had become so normal that it slipped Crowley’s mind to mention. He had mentioned to keep her magic down to a minimum, and Anathema assumed that meant the snake thing. However, unlike Crowley, Anathema figured out the _reason_ why Astraea enjoyed her little game.

“Would you like to help me garden?” Anathema asked one morning. Newton had already left on a job, and it was just the two of them at the breakfast table.

“You garden?” Astraea grinned, like she didn’t know.

“I do. I grow all manners of herbs and beautiful plants. If you’d like to help, I could certainly use some. We need to weed and water. Can you do that?”

Astraea nodded enthusiastically.

Crowley, who was a snake, had a different perspective on the whole thing. He’d seen Astraea trying out her new form in the most devious way possible, which made sense, given his own experiences. It seemed like something that he would have done if he’d ever been a child. Anathema, who had never been a snake in her life, saw the antics of a child who needed something to do, with someone. Toys and books and paper could only do so much for a quick paced mind; Anathema identified with that, all too much.

As such, it became a part of their routine. Astraea, happily, would waddle out after Anathema to see her pretty plants and help take care of them. Anathema pointed them all out, explained what they were, and let Astraea use the hose to water. Astraea enjoyed it more than she ever thought possible.

That was the thing about it. Astraea was enjoying all of it more than she thought possible. When Anathema wasn’t gardening, Anathema was working on things. Things that Astraea was overtly curious about. Things that Anathema would love to share in the way that she’d once shared with Adam, when he was still young. She kept in touch with Adam and his friends, but it wasn’t quite the same as teaching someone something for the first time. Astraea was the best student she could have asked for.

She taught Astraea about lay lines. She taught Astraea about divinations and spells and honing tactics. She even taught Astraea about auras, which had brought up the terrifying question of Astraea’s aura. Anathema had looked for it, once, when Astraea wasn’t more than a wave of energy trying to grow. She hadn’t been able to see it, and she’d just assumed a similarity to Adam Young. She’d never found out the true reason for why Adam didn’t have an aura, or more accurately, why she couldn’t see it. It didn’t hurt to try again.

Just like before, Astraea didn’t seem to have an aura, but she did have a feeling. It was a dark, vast, and empty thing that left Anathema feeling a bit chilled. Something told her that if she’d looked so deeply into Gilgamesh, too, she would find the same.

“I can’t see yours,” Anathema said. “It’s an art, not a science. We can try again sometime, though.” She offered a strained smile and hoped it worked as well as it had the first time.

“I bet my aura’s just too cool,” Astraea grinned. It had worked perfectly.

In the off time of learning to garden and learning to be a witch, Astraea even spent time with Newton. There were nights when Anathema had other things to do, such as cook or shower or shop. Or something she wouldn’t say; it wasn’t as if Astraea needed to know everything, and Astraea didn’t even care to know everything. Sometimes, Anathema just needed time to herself. Taking care of a ten-year old was not something as easy as it sounded, and it had sounded difficult.

On those nights with Newton, Astraea learned vastly different things. He told her stories of how, once, he’d been absolutely horrible with electronics. Something had shifted, roughly ten years ago, and electronics were suddenly the easiest thing he could do. Adam had taken pity on him, but Newton didn’t need to know that. He’d always loved electronics; to be able to work with them again was a blessing, and he was more than happy to pass that knowledge onto someone else.

Astraea was like a sponge. She wanted to know everything. Newton was sure that she could build a computer if he’d given her the parts; it would be something worth trying. They didn’t _need_ a new computer, but it might have been a fun nighttime activity.

Until then, Astraea could certainly play with the things that Newton gave her. He’d start her off small and teach her how to make a potato circuit. Then, maybe they could make a volcano. They were things that he’d wanted to do as a child and always managed to mess up. Now, he had Astraea to do them with, and it was just as fun. Even if the volcano ended up making a huge mess in the kitchen. Anathema had at least had the kindness to offer them both a smile before she made them clean it up.

As it turned out, it was very easy to clean when your cleaning partner was a ten-year old with an attitude. She did not want to clean, and so they didn’t. Astraea had just snapped her fingers, and it was like the whole thing had never happened.

“Handy, that,” Newton commented.

“It makes me special,” Astraea preened. And it certainly did.

The issue with special and with an attitude like Astraea had was that it mixed together and created something that Crowley had been perfecting over the years. It was a mix of superiority with a healthy dash of self-loathing, hold the loathing. Astraea had no reason to look at herself in the mirror and see a demon, because she wasn’t a demon. She also, in that vein, had no reason to think that demons were inherently anything. To her, angels and demons were the same thing, the same lot: annoying and problematic. She loved exactly one of each, and that was enough.

The problem with Astraea’s special brand of superiority was that it looked a lot like a little girl who had stopped realizing she was a little girl. Crowley had left a message to _not_ use magic, and Astraea couldn’t fathom why. She could use proper magic, so why would she not? Maybe transforming wasn’t a great idea, especially in the case of appearances. She was supposed to look like she fit in here, like she was Anathema’s cousin come to stay for a while. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use a miracle here or there.

Miracles were fun.

Miracles made it easy.

Just what they made easy was absolutely nothing like Astraea could figure, because she was still a child at heart. She wasn’t concerned for the abstract safety of her person, because she felt safe in her immediate surroundings. It wasn’t entirely sensible, to her, that safety wasn’t so concrete as anything else in her life. It wasn’t the first thing on her mind when she created miracles, when she whipped around some magic. She didn’t have the perspective to understand it, like others had.

The issue was that miracles made it easy to _find_ her. No one had stopped looking.

Outside, there was havoc and mayhem on every corner of the world with the appearance of the tower in the ocean. The tower symbolized two horrific things: The End Times, created by the great, foretold battle between Heaven and Hell, and an acceptance of togetherness that they’d never had. It was a truce. It wasn’t that Heaven or Hell had stopped looking, it was that they’d bound their forces to search together.

Until Astraea and Gilgamesh were dealt with, their war would not come. In fact, Astraea and Gilgamesh were the very key to _stopping_ that war. To stopping it, forever. If they wanted to see each other on the battlefield, Heaven and Hell, they would ensure nothing could stand in the way. Following miracles was just something they’d learned to do.

Now, Astraea had no formal paperwork, but she had a signature that appeared just the same as Aziraphale’s might have. The more magic she used, the larger the signature became. The larger it became, the more she was in danger. The more danger Astraea was in, the more danger Anathema and Newton were in.

Gilgamesh neither slept nor made himself a bed, that first night. He opted for sitting on the sofa for the night, while Adam and Pepper went to sleep. They’d tried what they could, but Gilgamesh wasn’t listening. He refused to listen. He refused to even _blink_. Crowley had said he’d be relatively self-sufficient, so neither Adam nor Pepper saw an issue with leaving him there for the night. He’d still be on the sofa in the morning, as it were, because all he was doing was staring at himself in the reflection of their cheap little telly.

Where Astraea had seen pristine walls and a place to burn, Gilgamesh had seen the dark, wet basements. He’d seen the dripping pipes, the slimes, the mess. He’d seen the papers strewn about, the slob mess of it all. He’d seen the waste, the grime. Gilgamesh had watched it all pass by in flashes, and he’d hated it. It was dirty. There was no order. And he had the power to change that. He had the power to wash it all away and make it something new, if he chose.

Maybe he would just choose to wash it all away. He’d been given the power to restart and a place that desperately needed _cleansed_.

By morning, Gilgamesh realized just what sort of a mess the schedule was. Adam and Pepper were both in university, and they’d been in university for a few years, each. Somewhere in their first year of university, they’d officially decided to _give things a try_ —neither one of them being overly fond of formalities nor official things. Three years later, they had decided to move into a flat together. Their schedules were starting to differ further and further apart, as they moved up in their classes.

Adam was pursuing a political science degree with a side of business. Pepper had gone into women’s studies and education. They both worked on the side, and it made things hectic. Living together had been the only way they’d ever get to see each other, and it was working out as well as anyone could have expected it too. They kissed in the morning when Pepper went off to work. They would kiss again in the evening when Adam went off to work.

In the meantime, Adam laid out his books on the coffee table and sat on the floor with a plate of toast. For Gilgamesh, he’d brought a bowl of cereal, which Gilgamesh didn’t hesitate to grab up and set in his lap to eat. For the moment after, it was relatively quiet, save for the crunching of varying shapes of grain. Adam found it was difficult to focus with an elephant in the room, though, and focused more on eating than he did his books.

“Gilgamesh, right?” Adam asked.

Gilgamesh nodded in return.

“I’m Adam. Adam Young, that is. That’s my girlfriend, Pepper. She just left for work.”

“What’s work?” Gilgamesh asked.

“Oh, well. It’s like. It’s a job. Pepper and I both have jobs so we can earn money. It pays for the flat and our classes.”

“Classes? Like school?” Gilgamesh grimaced.

“You don’t go to school?”

Gilgamesh shook his head. “We didn’t like school. We didn’t need it.”

Adam laughed. “You’re lucky, then. I hate school, but I need it if I want to do anything with my life.”

“You feel weird,” Gilgamesh said in a sudden change of topic. “Why do you feel weird?”

“I’m not sure.” Adam’s brow furrowed.

That was how Adam spent the morning telling Gilgamesh about Armageddon instead of reading his chapters for class. Gilgamesh, strangely, had known everything about Armageddon except that Adam Young was the Anti-Christ. Truthfully, Adam didn’t even know if he _was_ the Anti-Christ anymore. He still had powers, here or there, but the entire end of Armageddon had come on the insistence that he _wasn_ _’t_ Satan’s son. He would have figured that meant an end to the whole Anti-Christ gig, but he could still do a few things.

“Maybe it’s not Satan’s magic, anymore,” Gilgamesh had offered. That left a strange feeling in the pit of Adam’s stomach, so he decided to go back to reading.

Gilgamesh spent his time reading or watching television. Every now and again, he took one of Adam’s or Pepper’s textbooks and he read it. Gilgamesh was just as much a sponge as Astraea was; he read the textbooks and kept the information for himself, like it belonged to him. There was even a night where he’d helped Adam study for a test, simply because there wasn’t a question Gilgamesh couldn’t think to ask. It was terrifying, really. Both Adam and Pepper had seen terrifying before, and it really wasn’t in the face of a ten-year old boy.

Pepper and Adam had relatively backwards schedules. Pepper worked in the morning and went to classes in the evening, where Adam went to classes in the morning and worked in the evening. They studied in their free time, when they weren’t meeting friends or doing something for themselves. And they didn’t do that so much anymore, either. They would have, if not for the sudden addition of a child flatmate. It would have been in pretty poor taste to leave Gilgamesh alone any more than they did.

That was how weekends and estranged afternoons became a sort of culture time. Culture was loosely defined as watching bad movies and eating bad food, but it was fun. There weren’t any places that they could _take_ Gilgamesh that wouldn’t raise questions, so it was easier to spend time inside and have what fun they could.

As it turned out, Gilgamesh was not so good at hide-and-seek, but was very good at reenacting movie scenes. It all sounded a bit silly, given how young and squeaky his voice was, but Pepper was always his co-star, and Adam always clapped when they finished.

Things turned less fun, as they tended to, twice during the year. Gilgamesh learned about these _exams_ , and he decided he didn’t like them. He would have, given the chance, used a quick miracle to help Adam and Pepper pass them. Gilgamesh had been rather stand-offish for the first few weeks in their flat, and it seemed like the proper thing he could do to make up for it. They had both denied his assistance, because the point of exams was to learn, but that didn’t mean Gilgamesh didn’t try.

Gilgamesh couldn’t stop time in the same way that Crowley could, but he could manipulate it well enough. It was difficult to study to the extent that Adam and Pepper needed to study when their schedules were so tightly packed, so Gilgamesh thought to do something about it.

For midterms, Gilgamesh had stretched out an evening into hours and hours. Adam and Pepper didn’t even feel _tired_ , which was the strange part. They needed to eat and drink like they always did, but their very beings didn’t seem to realize that time was passing. They could study their hearts out in the span of one night and do it again whenever they felt inclined. Gilgamesh always delivered.

The issue was that Gilgamesh should not have been delivering. All three of them knew that magic was one of those off-the-table things, but they neither seemed to realize what they were doing or care. Pepper and Adam needed to do well on their exams, and it only seemed fair. Gilgamesh was taking up the free time they could have used to study; if he could give that free time back, nobody had an issue with taking a tad bit of advantage. Gilgamesh enjoyed it, even if he shouldn’t have.

He didn’t do it for every test they had, but he offered. He didn’t do it again until finals came around, as the year was pulling into a close. It was early December, and that meant that Gilgamesh and Astraea would be reaching eleven in less than a month. Nobody would blame two college students struggling to get by for caring more about their grades and performance than they did about an ominous, looming sort of end date.

Hilariously enough, the storms and the threat of a giant tower in the ocean hadn’t been enough to stop school; no one thought that it would. It wasn’t even day-to-day life that was affected by a tower in the ocean. It was more of those ominous, looming things that were hard for individuals to care about, less the stress of a world they couldn’t change overwhelm their routines. It wasn’t fair to do that, so most people ignored the ominous, looming things.

There were tensions growing everywhere. School went on as normal. Work went on as normal. But if one were to turn on the late-night news to hear about the state of everything that happened on outside of the individual, they would have learned about the things that were happening. They would have learned about how the countries’ leaders were looking at each other, now, with villainous intent on every side. There were even new elected officials that neither left a good nor bad taste in people’s mouths, miraculously, as they were the ones that were pushing for these growing tensions.

That sort of idea had been around, once, when tensions were so high that officials’ fingers hovered over the big, red button on a daily basis. It was a race to see, if given the cause, who could hit that big button first. Those times rolled right back around under the noses of individuals, as they often did, and left a cloud over everything. It was poisonous.

It would be a war without War. She was never far when the humans fought, even in her recent demise, but this was not a war of humans.

Unfortunately, there was just enough _human_ in the way that Gilgamesh lived that the dreams felt like nightmares more than they did reality, a warning sign. He kept using his magic, which left a signature very much the same as Aziraphale’s might have. It made him easy to find, and he didn’t realize just how easy to find it would make him. He didn’t realize that he didn’t _need_ to be easy to find, because the dreams were just nightmares, not reality, not warning signs.

Even if a part of him could name the officials and explain _why_ they were so miraculously neutral, he struggled to make the connection. It was the problem when children were put in charge of things. Neither of them had come into their full power, yet, either. Heaven and Hell had learned from last time. This time, they intended to be ahead of schedule. One step ahead. One move ahead.

As it were, they had exactly two loose ends to tie up, and those loose ends were about to be tied up.

Demons would do the hunting. Angels would do the killing. It was an equal amount of blood to be shed on an equal amount of hands, and all in the name of the war that they had been trying to have for decades, already. Centuries. Millennia. A moment of camaraderie would be worth it for the time that they could spend fighting on the battlefield and ripping each other to shreds. Even when they worked together, the demons were still sure Hell would win. The angels were still sure Heaven would win.

Inevitably, Anathema would never stand a chance. Newton hadn’t been home when the demon burst through the door—a slimy woman who looked like she’d been dosed a lagoon one too many times. She was dripping with slime and grime, teeth sharper than a shark’s, and her bite just as nasty. She had claws for hands, claws for feet, and she wore clothes what were so torn apart and ratty that it was a wonder they stayed on her at all. Her hair hung down around her face in dripping, horrifying shreds.

Anathema had tried. She had tried, but she had nothing at her disposal strong enough to ward off a demon. Not a true demon. Even the precautions that had been on the house for centuries didn’t matter in the wake of a demon like this, who’d just walked through the front door. The horseshoe had been left in a pile of ashes on the front step, and the demon stalked through the house.

All she’d had to do was grab Anathema by the neck and toss her to the side. Anathema had hit the wall, hard, and crumbled to the floor.

Astraea could throw all the fire and fury that she wanted, but she wasn’t there, yet. It was a petty little trial run of what this demon knew she’d be capable of, one day. Astraea would be eleven in less than three days, and she needed to be taken care of now. Unfortunately, the demon didn’t have the power at her disposal to kill Astraea. The demons believed that Heaven knew what to do.

Heaven hoped they would figure it out, in time.

Fortunately, Astraea would be nothing but a petulant little girl until she turned eleven, and all the fire in her fingers was nothing in the wake of a water-logged demon. It had taken five seconds for Astraea to fall, and what a noble five seconds it was. The demon scooped her up from the floor and walked right out the front door, from whence she’d came.

Adam _had_ powers, but they were nowhere near as strong as they used to be. Maybe Gilgamesh had been right—they weren’t powers of Satan, any longer—or maybe he’d been wrong. It didn’t _matter_ , because it wasn’t enough. The demon with fire in his eyes walked through the front door of his flat right after him, slamming his smoldering hand into the wood of the door to keep it open. Adam had shot back and _tried_ , and tried, but it didn’t matter.

This was a demon, and Adam had little control over reality, anymore. All that was running through his mind was _Pepper. Pepper. Pepper!_

The demon would kill Pepper, if he got to her. The demon couldn’t kill the Anti-Christ, and he couldn’t kill whatever Gilgamesh was, but he could kill a person. Thankfully, however horrible the thought was, Gilgamesh liked to stay in the living room. He was right there when the demon stalked in, and neither of them had to go very far.

Adam tried. No one would ever say he didn’t try. He knew the consequences, if he let Gilgamesh go. Gilgamesh didn’t care about the consequences; he cared more about _safety_ , now. When the demon tried to start the fire, Gilgamesh put it out. He cared more about putting it out than he did protecting himself, because a fire meant the complex would burn. People would die.

Gilgamesh didn’t want people to die.

Gilgamesh _liked_ people.

Gilgamesh lasted a valiant five seconds before the demon had him, and there was nothing Adam could have ever done to stop it. Gilgamesh fought and screamed and shouted, but for three more days, he was just a strange little child. For three more days, he and Astraea were nothing.

Hopefully, they would die before then.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY I'm back and I bring nothing good :DDDD Twas so late with a new chapter cuz a lot of stuff happened. I lost someone very close to me and then I had surgery and now that I am home in recovery i have WRITTEN and you won't thank me for it.
> 
> Ur welcome
> 
> Enjoy <3

That sound was a dark and ringing sound, one which had always been accompanied by those infernal _celestial harmonies_. There were flames, but those weren’t as frightening as the total and whole helplessness that wrapped like chains around Crowley’s arms and his legs and his _neck_. The flames he was used to. He lived in them. Born in them. Died in them. Flung them from his fingers at the best of times and burned himself on them. It was the helplessness of that black, singing cloud that choked him more than smoke ever could.

The worst part of the darkness was that it circled around an individual. The place around him was bright, white, and pristine, but that darkness had lingered with such a hold that Crowley couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to breathe, but he wanted to—it felt freeing to breathe, and he couldn’t. It was just another choice ripped from his lungs, and it was _dark_. All of it had turned so dark, so pressing.

Tried as he might, Crowley couldn’t run through the darkness. No matter how far he went, there was darkness. Not even a flame could blot it out. Just beyond it was something that he could hear, but he’d never _see_ it if he couldn’t get past the darkness. He wanted to see it. He could hear it, and the hearing of it sounded like something terrifying and worse than any darkness could ever be.

He knew the voices of his children well enough to know them, to hear them when he did. They were so far apart when they spoke, and they spoke in a way that Crowley couldn’t understand. Something was missing. Something big, something dreadful. Like every other letter was cut out of their words, but if smashed together again, maybe their words would form again. They were too far away to talk like that. Too far away. Farther away than Crowley had left them.

In a bright, white, pristine place.

Farther apart than the eight-hour drive.

Crowley jolted awake when the ringing of his phone had gotten too loud to bear. He was sweating, panting, and he already knew what was going to be on the other side of that ring. He answered it, regardless, just as Aziraphale walked through the open door to the bedroom. Sometime through the night, Aziraphale had decided that sleeping wasn’t for him, at that particular hour, and he’d gone about to busy himself. Busying himself was all he’d been doing as the year dragged by.

 _Something_ _’s happened_ , Newton said, out of breath and panicked. _Anathema_ _’s hurt, and I can’t find Astraea_.

Crowley didn’t even bother with a response. The phone was ringing again, and he switched lines to hear the second call.

 _Adam_ _’s hurt; Gilgamesh is gone—What the fuck did you sign us up for!?_ Pepper shouted through the phone.

Crowley hung up on both of them and threw his phone down into the bed. Aziraphale had rushed across the room to sit on the bed the second that Crowley looked like he was going to _break_. He’d wrapped his arms around himself so he could scratch his nails through his hair; his breathing was still labored; he’d dragged his knees up to his chest. Aziraphale grabbed onto his shoulders before Crowley could disappear altogether.

“Cowley—Crowley, what’s happened?”

“My fault. It’s my fault. I ruined everything, I did this, I—”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said sternly, squeezed his shoulders tighter. “What happened? _Please,_ tell me what happened.” Aziraphale was on the verge of panicking.

“Heaven as them,” Crowley gritted out. “ _Heaven_ has our _kids_.”

In the next second, Crowley had thrown himself out of bed. He’d forgotten, entirely, that he could perform a miracle to make it all faster—but he tore through his closet to find real clothes to wear. Aziraphale, still reeling from the news, sat on the bed and watched him with wide eyes. He needed to do what Crowley was doing. He needed to get ready—but for what? What was Crowley even getting ready for?

“Crowley—”

“We have to get them. _Fuck_ , I’m not going to leave them up there. We have to get them back— _now_ —”

“Crowley, listen to yourself! How do you even know you can step foot in Heaven?”

“I’ve done it once before; figure I’ll just do it again.” Crowley had striped himself down to his drawers and started pulling on a new pair of pants.

“You were in my body!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Crowley stopped short. “We _have_ to get them; don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter what happens to me, because if we leave them up there, they _will die_.”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath. Crowley was right. Heaven would stop at nothing to kill these children, and how horrible was that. They were _children_. Children. There was something slightly different in sending a flood to indiscriminately wipe out a group of people than raising a sword to a singular, specific child. However dangerous they would be, they weren’t. They couldn’t be. Astraea still liked to eat worms, and Gilgamesh was learning to play a violin.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and they were both dressed in the next instant. It didn’t matter what happened to them. What mattered was that Gilgamesh and Astraea were rescued and safe. Maybe once, Aziraphale would have worried about the logistics of _how_ to get Crowley up to Heaven, but that was when Aziraphale was concerned about walking through the front door. Neither of them would walk through the front door for this.

They had two days, now, and time wasn’t as reliable as it used to be.

Heaven was a bright place. Bright, white, pristine. To the point where it was near blinding. Even the view outside, which had once looked over all the kingdoms of the world and was now just the outlook of the clouds and the fog, was bright. Blinding. Terrifying. What’s more, it felt vast. It felt empty. No matter how many angels walked in the halls of Heaven, it still felt empty in this little cell. Just a room, just as bright, but it was isolated and alone.

Gilgamesh could _feel_ Astraea, somewhere. She was close, but it felt like there were oceans between them. She was, no doubt, in the same predicament. They were both locked in their own separate rooms. Empty rooms. Rooms that were just a bright, putrid white. There wasn’t even so much as a chair or a bed. The room didn’t feel so much like a cell as it did a final resting place: as empty as a casket, save for the body. There just happened to be two of them, in their own rooms, with their wrists bound in magic.

The whole place was set up to shut him down. Gilgamesh could feel the thrumming in his fingertips of would-be magic, but it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t _do_ anything, and he hardly understood. The dreams had been real, and they were a message. He knew that. It was a purpose that had flooded through his veins since the very thought of his existence—their existence. Since before Aziraphale or Crowley ever knew that they would be blessed with twins. And still, it didn’t feel right, anymore.

When the door opened, Gilgamesh jerked. He’d been expecting an angel at any time, and there was an angel walking through the door wearing her pristine, putrid white clothes. She wore a suit with long, asymmetrical tails and a frown. Her skin was dark, her hair darker, puffed up in her tight rings of curls. Like a halo all on its own. She had come in, closed the door, and stepped up right before Gilgamesh, who had tried to scoot away. He couldn’t move.

“I know you,” she said. “I’ve known you longer than anyone up here.”

Gilgamesh looked up at her. He knew her too.

“Raguel,” he said.

She smiled.

“You tried to kill us. From the very beginning—you’re the reason it’s a _we._ _”_ Gilgamesh frowned. Maybe the information didn’t sit so right with Astraea, but she knew it too. That they were never meant to exist in the way that they were. Gilgamesh and Astraea were never in anyone’s plan, but there they were, struggling to pick up the pieces of a broken line.

“I know. I’m in deep shit because of it. I _would have_ killed you, you know. But your—Crowley. Crowley’s something _fucked_ that I haven’t ever had to face. Besides,” and Raguel knelt to be eye level with Gilgamesh, “I kill evil spirits. That’s my job. I take care of _evil_ in the world.”

“That’s why you were sent; I’m not stupid,” Gilgamesh hissed.

Raguel shook her head. “You’re not evil. I can feel it. Trust me, I know evil when I see it, and you? You’re not evil. Neither of you are.”

Gilgamesh didn’t let up; he didn’t believe her. As far as he was concerned, Raguel was here to finish the job while they could still be killed.

“I think you were sent to fix some shit that’s been going on far too long.” Raguel snapped her fingers, and the magic around Gilgamesh’s wrists disappeared. “I say we fix that shit.”

Gilgamesh pulled himself to his feet, then. “Astraea,” he said. “We need to get Astraea.”

“And we have to hurry. If we don’t—well. Let’s just say I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Gilgamesh didn’t have any reason not to trust Raguel—not now. She could have killed him just as easy as snapping a neck. He was two days shy of eleven and powerless. She hadn’t. She’d taken him by the hand and pulled him out of the room, and they ran down the hall. It was like Raguel didn’t care how far they had to go or who saw them, as long as they went. But Heaven was strangely empty. Strangely wide and open. Where usually, it was bogged down in the presence of angels, there was nothing.

Heaven and Hell had, quite literally, appeared on earth. There were angels and demons _out there_ , now, trying to begin things before it was too late. The plan was, as far as they were concerned, going. It wouldn’t be as easy as it was the first time to start the world into a nuclear exchange, but that wouldn’t stop them. It would just take longer. Hopefully, no longer than two days.

Where Heaven and Hell had been working together to get rid of the only two things that might stand in their way, they were not working together for anything else. Out in the world, on Earth, it was a race to see who could get control first. Who could win the loyalties of the countries? Who would be the first one to strike, once the order was made? Nobody could strike before the only true threat was dealt with, and Raguel was ensuring that it _couldn_ _’t_ be dealt with.

It was the only defense she had left. Raguel was on God’s very personal shit-list, now. She’d not only failed to kill the threat when it was certainly killable, but she’d _lied_ about it. For years. She’d lied about it for nearly eleven years—assuring everyone that the threat was dead. Nobody found her in her lie until the near end of the eleven years when Gilgamesh and Astraea were nearly their way to full power. Once she’d been caught in her lie, that was the end of her cushy time.

Really, she should have just stayed off in the stars. If she had known to just ignore that original call, everything would have been horribly different. It would have probably been for the best, but now she was stuck cleaning up her own mess. The only way she knew how to clean it was let the whole thing burn.

Raguel didn’t have a key to Astraea’s room, but she didn’t need a key. She was a destroyer of evil. To vanquish evil was the only reason Raguel existed in the way that she did, and as far as she was concerned, locking children in rooms for their inevitable execution _was_ evil. The door opened for her because she blasted it down.

Astraea was kneeling in the middle of the room, in very much the same predicament that Gilgamesh had been. Only, when Raguel approached, Astraea didn’t try to back down. Astraea would never back down from something that smelled, looked, and breathed like a threat. Even if she had no power and no way to possibly fight, she would still do it. Thankfully, there was no reason for her to fight, and there was no discussion to be had. At the snap of Raguel’s fingers, the magic binding dissipated just as fast as the door.

“They’re preparing for war,” Raguel told them. “Heaven is, Hell is. If we don’t move fast, the whole world’s fucked.”

“Why do you care?” Astraea asked. She wasn’t moving from her spot until she _knew_. “Why would you care about any of this?”

“Because I’m fucked, too,” Raguel replied. “I’m next on the list of _bad thing to be punished_ , so we have to like, fucking _move_.”

“What do you get out of this?”

“ _Freedom_ ,” Raguel hissed. “That’s what we all get out of this, isn’t it?” she knelt down and took Astraea by the arms. “I can see that fire in your eyes—it’s holy. Heaven will _bow_ to you, and you’ll destroy it. Isn’t that why you came?”

Astraea stiffened.

“That’s what I want to see. This shit’s been allowed to reign for too long, and someone’s gotta put a stop to it. That’s you, isn’t it? Gilgamesh takes care of Hell.”

Astraea yanked herself out of Raguel’s hold and said nothing. Raguel had figured it all out, because she could _see_ it all unfold in front of her. It was her job to judge the goodness of a soul, and she saw neither Hell nor Heaven inside of Gilgamesh and Astraea. They were something old. Something new. Something dark.

It had taken a combined effort and a combined power, but Aziraphale had made the portal. And it worked. Maybe a portal to Heaven wasn’t meant to accept real physical bodies, but they didn’t _need_ physical bodies in heaven. They just needed a form and a hope that Crowley wouldn’t be immediately sent to Hell. If he was, he could take the elevator.

Thankfully, they both appeared in the same place, as the same. Maybe their bodies weren’t entirely the same, but Aziraphale was still Aziraphale and Crowley was still Crowley. They were just in Heaven instead of the safe, little cottage. They were just steps away from the very people who wanted their children dead, who wanted _them_ dead. Maybe they would be dead by the end of it, but as long as they could get Gilgamesh and Astraea away, home, then that was fine.

That was all they cared about.

“We have to find them—how are we going to do that?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley.

“We just start looking. You know Heaven better than I ever did.”

Aziraphale chewed on his bottom lip. He _did_ know Heaven better than Crowley did, even if he couldn’t rightfully fathom why. That didn’t mean he knew where to look, and up in Heaven, the feelings were different. He could _feel_ Gilgamesh and Astraea, but they weren’t close, and they weren’t far. They were just everywhere, like their energy had seeped into the very ground of Heaven, Hell, and something had begun. It was something altogether different and just as terrifying.

They began their search in as slow and careful, and it would only be slow and careful for so long. Heaven was preparing for a _war_ , and that preparedness was set out all over the halls and open rooms. This was going to be a bigger war than even Armageddon could have hoped to be. There were angels upon angels upon angels adorning their armor, looking at their weapons. The world would end _while_ the war began, this time, because nobody wanted to wait again.

They needed to get out of here _now_. Alpha Centauri was still an option; they could flee and let the earth perish just as quickly as it should have eleven years ago. Whatever their plan was, there was a sudden panic in their step. A rush. A need to get in, get out, to do _something_. This place wasn’t safe—for any of them. There weren’t angels roaming the halls, there were soldiers.

Their rush and run and panic led them through the halls, at Aziraphale’s lead, out until they were in a room that—a room that was familiar. Aziraphale couldn’t fathom how they’d arrived here, because _he_ didn’t recognize it. From the look of the window, they were as high up in the world as they could get, and still, nothing about it felt real. How had the halls even led here? They hadn’t gone up stairs, not even once. They had gone through doors and hallways and more doors, and maybe, just maybe.

Maybe they were led here.

Whatever the reason was, it didn’t matter. When they ran into the room, when they entered, they were met with the most beautiful sight they’d ever seen. Oh, it was _running_ children. Their children. Their twins free and happy and coming at them with open arms; Aziraphale scooped up Gilgamesh, and Crowley grabbed Astraea. Behind them, walking with rightful hesitation, was Raguel. The moment Crowley saw her, he passed Astraea over to Aziraphale, who didn’t even struggle to hold two eleven-year olds and stepped in front of them.

“What do you want?” Crowley hissed.

“The same thing they want—I want this shit gone. I lettem out, you lug. Don’t act all big and tough.”

“I—what?” Crowley looked back. Gilgamesh and Astraea both nodded. Raguel had let them out.

“They came to destroy this whole thing, and Heaven wanted them dead before they could. Don’t you guys know that?”

Crowley and Aziraphale had spent a long, painstaking time attempting to _not_ be involved in the affairs of Heaven and Hell. As it turned out, Gilgamesh and Astraea were interwoven in it by birth. It was in the fire and the water that they could both manifest right out of air.

There was clapping, then. From far down the room on either side, where they were standing in the middle. At the end of the room, Beelzebub was standing without an ounce of enjoyment strewn out over her face. At the head of the room, Gabriel was clapping away like he’d just watched the greatest performance of their time. Just clapping. Through the sound of clapping they could hear footsteps, and the rhythm was the same. The longer Gabriel clapped, the louder the footsteps were, and they came from everywhere.

“This wasn’t exactly how things were planned,” Gabriel started, “but I suppose it will do.”

Aziraphale had set both the twins down; his first instinct was to protect them, to shuffle them behind him. Crowley was there. Raguel joined them, and she looked just as angry, just as mad. All around them, demons and angels poured in dressed in their armor, brandishing their weapons.

“Do you remember this place?” Gabriel asked. “You, the demon Crowley, do you remember?”

Crowley looked at Gabriel, past Gabriel. He remembered all of it.

“You should. Have you ever told anyone?”

Crowley stayed silent.

“Perhaps I should share it then—your life.”

Crowley didn’t say a word when Gabriel _began_ , because he remembered all of it. He didn’t have the strength to shut it down.

_Crowley had been the_ most beautiful of the Seraphim. He had six, stark white wings attached to a stark black body, where he was still what he used to be. Not a snake, but still a serpentine creature of fire. All the Seraphim were. Their bodies were long and rolling with legs that carried them in a sort of dance when they did not fly, and they flew often. With six wings, it was hard not to fly. It was hard not to carry themselves with all that pride when they sang out in their harmonies, their praises.

Back when Crowley believed that God was good, he’d sung Her praises the loudest. She’d looked at him, once, and beckoned that he come to Her side. Without a choice to make, Crowley had landed beside Her and listened to Her talk. She said such beautiful things, and Crowley thought they were good.

He’d watched as God created things, as God put things in place. He listened as She talked and told him of everything that she planned to do. When She tired of talking, She waved Crowley away, and he would return to fly and sing with the rest of his kind. The Seraphim.

There had never been another Seraph that God had invited to Her side, and She invited Crowley often. He’d never met another angel, but he knew God. He knew Her. He loved Her. He thought that She felt the same way, when She looked at him with Her eyes like fire. She wasn’t so much as being, a thing, as She was a feeling, as She was Love. Crowley had always thought She was beautiful, and it wasn’t just for the way that he’d been made to sing, it was for thoughts egging on in the back of his head. Thoughts that he’d thought, that he’d created.

Once, he’d even dared speak to the Almighty, and She had laughed at him in the way a mother laughs at her child. In a sort of humoring, condescending way—Crowley hadn’t known that at the time. His name hadn’t even been Crowley, but he couldn’t remember his name anymore. His name didn’t seem to matter. Even back then, it hadn’t mattered—his name. God never called him by name; She only called him _Seraph_. That’s what he was. A Seraph. With his wings and his glowing rings of fire and his voice. The songs of glory he sang.

The _celestial harmonies_.

The more Crowley talked, the less God seemed to look for him. The less She looked at him with Love in her eyes and joy. Crowley was doing something She had intended for no angel to be able to do—to think. It was the first time that Crowley had fallen out of the ranks of the Seraphim and gone to walk the halls of heaven. The first time he’d met Lucifer.

Oh, Crowley had met everyone. He’d met Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael. He’d met Gabriel. He’d turned them all aside and looked back to Lucifer, who talked such an impressive talk that Crowley couldn’t help but listen. Lucifer talked in a way that Crowley had never heard, with an inflection that started dry and ended high. Crowley had learned what this was, that day. He had learned that Lucifer was asking _questions._

“Why does God get to make these decisions without our input?” Lucifer asked. “How do we know this is what _Good_ means? Are we just supposed to trust Her because She created us?”

Crowley didn’t know the answers to these questions, but he knew that they scared him. He’d gone back to the hall of God and sung his harmonies to try and forget, but he couldn’t forget.

There were over two million Seraphim, and Crowley didn’t know a single one of them. He didn’t know their names, their faces, or even if they enjoyed what they did. Did they like to fly? Did they like to sing? Did they have the same questions that Lucifer did? Crowley had questions, now, and they plagued him.

When next came the time that God called upon him, it was because she had a job. An order. She did not so much ask him to make the stars as She commanded him. Crowley made his starts exactly as God had commanded—to help, She’d said. Crowley’s name would never be written down as a creator of stars, because that wasn’t his function. His function was to do whatever it was his God commanded of him, and if She commanded that Crowley make a star he would never be given credit for? Then he created the star.

And he questioned _why_.

When God called upon him again, She was planning the first human. A human, She’d said, would occupy the world She’d made. It was a perfect world, Eden, and the people would know it was good. They would worship Her for it, because they were given life at Her hand and a place to live at Her hand. They would love her, She’d said. The humans would think she was great and grand and full of love, because she was. To prove her love, She’d craft these humans in Her own image.

“When they have lived their life,” She told Crowley, “they will die.”

“Why?”

Crowley regretted it.

Crowley had never regretted anything more, at that time, than asking that one question. One word. It wasn’t the first question that he’d asked, but it was the first he’d asked straight to the Almighty Herself, and Her eyes went wide. If he could take it back. If he could take all the questions back—

Well, would he?

The Fall happened all at once, but Crowley had been one of the first. Cast out for his questions, his transgressions. God had looked into his mind and seen _all_ the questions he asked, daily, hourly. Crowley had questioned everything that she did. She’d made two worlds: one was good, and one was Good. Crowley had questioned why. She’d proclaimed the perfection of angels but made humans different. Crowley had questioned why. She’d made them for the purpose of Her own glory. Crowley had questioned why.

When Crowley fell, he remembered the stinging pain of it. It was as if God Herself had grabbed him by the tips of his wings and thrown him over the side to watch him fall. Below, into that boiling pool of sulfur. If the fall hadn’t been enough, that would surely do away with him—wouldn’t it?

Crowley fell. He fell. And he fell. The winds burned through him, the atmosphere, the fire. All of it ripped through his body and his wings curled around himself like that might save him. Nothing would save him from the fire. By the time he hit the ground, the boiling pool of sulfur through which he sunk and drowned and drowned again—his wings had burned away. They’d left only the middle pair, shielded from the outside, and scars. The remaining pair was black and singed and damaged.

“They’ll heal,” he remembered being told. “We need you to get up there and make some trouble.”

When he’d gone up there to make some trouble, he found that his legs had burned away, and his wings tucked out of fear. He could cause trouble _without them._

Crowley could see it then, at the end of the room, leagues and leagues past were Gabriel stood. The throne. The throne that he’d flown around, sung about. The throne where he’d sat and listened to God boast about Herself until her breath would go quiet, if she’d had any. He remembered the way it felt like shackles tight around his neck, a noose. He didn’t miss it. He wouldn’t miss it.

He had freedom now, at least. Everything that had brought him to this moment had brought him to a moment where he could feel Astraea’s fingers wrap around his wrist. To Astraea and Gilgamesh—his _children_. If Falling was the first step to seeing them, the way that they were, and doing anything that he could for them, then Crowley would Fall as many times as he needed to. He shifted his hand to take Astraea’s hand in his, behind his back, where she would be safe.

“We’re willing to make a deal,” Gabriel called. “We don’t intend to fight this war on our turf. All you have to do is hand them over, and we’ll let you back, Crowley. We are prepared to see you, again, adorning your wings and your halo. Would you not want that back?”

Crowley had thought about nothing else for the majority of his time on Earth, as a demon. He’d dreamed about being let back into Heaven, and he knew there was a time where Aziraphale had thought the same. Aziraphale had never done anything but loved him and Loved him; Crowley had been Blessed for it, even if he’d been a demon. Aziraphale’s Love had never wavered, because Aziraphale had learned it didn’t matter. Crowley could be anything, and underneath it, he was still Crowley.

Crowley was a demon.

Crowley was a father.

And he cared about that far more than he’d cared about anything—demon or angel. It didn’t matter what colors his wings are or whose banner he flew, because he wanted nothing to do with any of it. For the first time, he realized how much he wanted to go back to their cottage and watch cooking shows on the sofa with Aziraphale curled up in his arms, with Astraea and Gilgamesh playing on the floor in front of them.

“You can make all the empty promises you want,” Crowley shouted back. “You can’t have my kids!”

“They aren’t just yours, though, are they?” Gabriel pressed. He had strictly _not_ mentioned that they weren’t kids. “Aziraphale,” he called instead. “We’ve been extremely lenient with you in the past. The list of your transgressions far surpasses that of any angel—”

“That’s enough!” because Astraea wasn’t about to listen to a single second of this. “Bargain all you want, you’re just a stupid angel!” she pushed forward, around Crowley, and stepped out in front.

Astraea had made the first move, and the angels followed. There would be an army between Astraea and Gabriel, and it was under great _care_ that she would not press forward, even if she tried. She was a child—what could she possible do to an army of Heaven?

She wasn’t alone. Beelzebub had known Gabriel wasn’t exactly one for tact, but she had no words to offer in help of his plight. She wanted the twins dead as much as anything, but she preferred a bit of bite with her bark. She wouldn’t bargain. She would stand there and stare down the line of the room to where Gilgamesh was standing, his arms crossed. He would be just as determined as Astraea to see this to an end, because they weren’t that different, were they?

“I say we stop the yapping,” Beelzebub offered. “Kids want a fight? How about we give’em a good one?”

There would be a legion of Hell between Gilgamesh and Beelzebub, and he would not step a foot closer, if that legion had anything to say about it.

“I was _hoping_ not to have to sacrifice any troops,” Gabriel sighed. “We need them in the coming war, unless you’d prefer to see the war happen right here.”

“What’s it to me?” Beelzebub asked. “I don’t even like white.”

It was like a call to battle, that. Ruin the order of Heaven. Ruin it with blood, if they could, and not their own. Ruin it with the blood of _children,_ a demon, and two wayward angels. Then, the rest of the angels. Maybe Beelzebub would even see the day that Gabriel was on his knees, and she would be in charge of his fate. She would enjoy that, she thought. She would enjoy that in the way of the coming battle, the battle that cried out right in front of her.

In a sudden rush of flame, Crowley had pulled fire straight from the ground and left it to circle around the five of them, to protect the for the moment when the battle rang out, when the demons rushed forward and the angels responded. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would be long enough that they could _do_ something—they could flee, they could run. They could do whatever they needed to do, but Crowley couldn’t hold it forever. Time wouldn’t freeze in Heaven, because time didn’t exist here.

Time didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?” Astraea whirled around. All at once, she didn’t _seem_ like the child she was. She looked no older, walked no taller, but the air about her had shifted something fierce. “We have to fight them! That’s why we’re _here_!”

“She’s right,” Gilgamesh chimed in, the same air and energy. “We have to do something; we can’t run from this.”

“You’re _children_ ,” Crowley hissed. “What kind of parent would I be if I let you run out into a fucking war?”

“We came here to get you, not to let you fight,” Aziraphale fretted. “We need to get out of here.”

“Then they go to Earth next,” Gilgamesh said. Around them, the battle rang out in the sounds of blades and clubs and shouting. Footsteps, grunts, and dying. “They end the world, they still fight, and we’ve done nothing to stop it. Didn’t you both try to stop it, once?”

“Why can’t we stop it?” Astraea frowned.

“Gilgamesh and Astraea stop it for good,” Raguel reminded. “They don’t just stop the war, they stop it all: Heaven, Hell, everything. It all goes away.”

Crowley growled to himself, and that was precisely when Aziraphale suddenly gasped out and hit the ground. Crowley’s fire died all at once, and without it, there was nothing that he could do to stop Astraea and Gilgamesh from heading out in their own opposite directions, to _join_ that fight. But Aziraphale. Crowley went to Aziraphale and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Hey—angel, hey,” Crowley said. “It’ll be alright. What’s wrong with you?”

Aziraphale couldn’t answer. It was like his breath had been stolen right from him with all the air in Heaven: gone. He gripped at his own throat and tried to find even a breath, even a word, and there was nothing. Not even a scream; if he were to scream, there wouldn’t be a real sound to it. Nothing more than an echo. Like he was screaming up through a long, long fall.

Gilgamesh took to the battle immediately, water on his fingertips that could burn anyone that it touched. He swung it around like a whip, and it was just as solid, just as strong as the sword that a demon brought down over his head. There was, by no rights, a reason that an eleven-year-old should know how to fight, but Gilgamesh wasn’t a child. Not really. Not here. Not anymore. He whipped the water back and forth across the way as he met each demon in a battle they couldn’t win.

He had one goal in mind: that he might defeat a legion here, an army. Every less demon, every less angel, was one more chance for the earth to survive what they were going to do to it. Without the orders, the bombs would never fly. The world would never end. Everything would stay the same—he needed things to stay the same. He wanted them to stay the same. If they won, here, and now, they could prove their might, and it would be threat enough to let them leave to go back to the way things were.

Gilgamesh didn’t want to destroy everything if he didn’t have to. Angels and demons may have been nothing different and nothing good, but they were beings, they were creatures. Gilgamesh didn’t want to see their lives end if they didn’t have to and proving that they had the ability would be the first step towards not _having_ to. Surely, they would see the error—they had to. They had to.

Astraea’s goal was entirely different. She had fire growing up her arms, fire in her eyes, and fire in her hair. She would run through the army of angels, because she had only had one finish line—Gabriel. Gabriel and his little group of friends, his Archangels—Astraea would scoff at them and take them each down in turn, because that’s just what she did. That’s what she was for. No angel would stand in her way, because even their armor was nothing but paper in the way of her fire.

Armor melted, blades melted, and shields grew so hot that they burned the hands of their holders. Without their _things_ , angels weren’t anything special. All the magic and the miracles in the world wouldn’t save them from the hand of a wrathful, vengeful little girl. She would see their numbers scattered, and to do that, their leader needed to be destroyed. Maybe her sights were set farther than Gabriel and his Archangels, but she knew there was no path beyond them if they still stood strong.

She could fight her way through the angels as fast as she could, and she wouldn’t make it there in time to make a difference. Past the veritable sea of angels, Gabriel let out a sigh. A defeated sigh. A resigned sigh. But he nodded to the side, where Sandalphon was standing with his fingers ready to snap and an order. To do whatever it took to save Heaven from these dark, old things disguised as children. Even if that meant looking elsewhere for a way to make them stop.

Aziraphale found his breath in a sudden, loud, bone-shattering _scream_. His wings suddenly rushed out of his back, and they looked like they were wretched, broken things the way that they were. It was like their feathers were burning away, like somehow, Aziraphale had caught _fire_ in the battle—but that wasn’t it.

Crowley knew that wasn’t it.

Crowley knew all too well what it was.

At the sound of Aziraphale’s shout, Gilgamesh had stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t just stopped, but he’d turned around as fast as he could to run back. He ran like he’d be able to _do_ something if he got there, but even his water on Aziraphale’s wings wouldn’t stop the burning pain. Aziraphale screamed with the ache of it, the way that it burned down to his very bones and crackled away—it would never be healed. He wasn’t in a body; the damage here would never go away. Not even if Gilgamesh made it back.

“We tried to warn you,” Gabriel called out to them. “We can’t let this transgression stand, Aziraphale. We’ve been lenient before, but this is too much. If you won’t stand with Heaven, then you’ll Fall with Hell.”

Aziraphale’s screams renewed when the flames did, with a new fervor, with vigor. Like their goal wasn’t just to take Aziraphale’s wings from him, but to _hurt_ him. Gabriel even winced at the sound of those screams; it was brutal. It was torture. The Fall was a punishment, it had to hurt, but it wasn’t _torture_.

“That’s enough, Sandalphon,” Gabriel said, quieter. But his voice carried through the battle to one ear that would hear it with purpose.

Astraea let out a terrifying shout. Damn all the angels, she thought, and she ran. She ran right through them with fire in her wake, because this was the last straw. This was the end. _They_ _’d_ come here to fight. What did Aziraphale have to do with it other than an age-old grudge? Child’s games. Petty. Stupid. Useless. Just like the Archangels, and Astraea would do away with _all_ of them, for this. Aziraphale was _Falling_ , because they weren’t strong enough to face Astraea themselves.

When Gilgamesh made it to Aziraphale, he fell down to his knees to kneel beside him. He wanted to help. He so desperately wanted to help, but his water wouldn’t do anything. It wasn’t _holy_ , and even holy water wouldn’t heal this. Every second that passed, more and more of Aziraphale’s angelic nature burned away and turned to ash, and there was nothing they could do about it. Even Raguel had joined the battle in her sudden rage, that they would stoop so low as this.

Astraea burst through the crowd of angels and all by _inches_ missed Gabriel with her strike of fire. Gabriel staggered off to the side, and Astraea let him—she had her eyes on Sandalphon first. He’d pulled the plug, made the call—whatever he wanted to call it. It was _his_ fault that _her_ mother was screaming and shouting in this pain. Astraea wouldn’t let it stand, not unpunished. Just a thankfully, Sandalphon had no issue with raising his weapon to a child.

Sandalphon wasn’t about to play fair, even if Gabriel had told him to put an end to the pain. He knew, rightfully, that Astraea was born to destroy angels. He wouldn’t stand a chance against her, not unless he pulled her apart weakness by weakness. That was what he was good at: playing a game that he could win, by his own rules. Astraea didn’t know those rules. So, Sandalphon snapped his fingers once more before crossing blades with the fiery thing Astraea had grown over her arm.

Aziraphale’s crying renewed in a high-pitched shriek as the first of his wings collapsed to the ground in an ashen, bone pile. His shout had been just enough to grab Astraea’s attention—however dark she was, however, old, however powerful, she was a child. She was a little girl afraid for her poor mummy’s safety, and Sandalphon used it to his advantage.

Sandalphon lunged forward and grabbed Astraea by the arm and took off, straight up into the height of the ceiling. He flew at a speed unprecedented, and it was like the whole of everything beneath him had paused to watch as he went off. Astraea struggled in his arm, but her fire wouldn’t burn, not like this. She wasn’t there yet. Her powers weren’t there. Time was against her in a place where Time didn’t exist, and she was helpless in Sandalphon’s grasp.

“Let me go!” she shouted, struggling. She had no leverage, no strength. “Put me down!” she shrieked.

Even Gabriel’s eyes were locked on as Sandalphon crested near the ceiling, where he came to a stop in his flight. Sandalphon’s wings were huge and impressive, and they kept him there in the air, where everyone was watching. _Even Gabriel_ watched with horror. Crowley had wrenched up to his feet, his wings out, but it was like he was frozen in place with horror. Gilgamesh was watching. Aziraphale was doubled over with his arms wrapped around himself.

“Astraea!” Crowley’s voice rang out first when Sandalphon _dropped_ her.

Sandalphon let her go. Dropped her. Astraea had the whole height of the floor to fall, and she _shrieked._

Before Crowley could even move his feet off the ground, Gilgamesh had suddenly taken off with _wings_. Gilgamesh didn’t have wings. He’d never had wings. He’d taken one look at the horror before him and sprouted a pair that didn’t even look like they belonged to him—they didn’t even connect to his back, but where they would have hovered like a magnet like metal that grew back over the wings. Gilgamesh’s wings were as white as his scales, and there were _six_ of them.

They were large. Powerful. Gilgamesh flew fast. And the only hope was that he would make it there on time, because Astraea hadn’t sprouted wings. Astraea _couldn_ _’t_ sprout wings.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey we're back again! this is the final time we'll be back. This here is the final chapter of Considerate Omens!
> 
> I'm really happy for everyone who enjoyed this and stuck around through the ups and the downs. The comments and response have been overwhelmingly positive, and it's just been a very big pleasure to be able to post this story. Thank you guys so much for your support <3

Time didn’t matter in Heaven. Time was meaningless. Every second that Gilgamesh flew was an hour that passed somewhere else, and he was going to reach Astraea. He wouldn’t let anything else happen. Nothing else _would_ happen. He reached out for her, but he wasn’t close enough. It was like matter what he did, he wouldn’t be close enough. He just had to fly faster, harder, further. He just had to _be_ better—to be everything she needed him to be.

“Astraea!” Gilgamesh shouted. “Astra—grab my hand!”

Astraea’s shrieks had stopped, and she followed the sound of his voice. She was still falling, but he was rising. If he just flew harder, faster—he’d reach her. He had to reach her. Nothing else would be acceptable, not for either of them. She did exactly what Gilgamesh did and reached out for him.

That was when things changed. When the world seemed to shift slightly to the left, and everyone from the ground watched something red bled out from Astraea, from her eyes, her lips, her nose. It crawled out over her hand to meet the very same energy that dripped down from Gilgamesh’s fingertips. The energy met in the middle when Gilgamesh finally grabbed her hand, but the falling didn’t stop. The falling just. Sped up. Until Astraea and Gilgamesh had wrapped around each other inside the safety of his wings.

Gilgamesh and Astraea never hit the ground. The ground shuttered and shook when _it_ landed, on four solid legs. The thing was built like a tree, thick with six pairs of wings that spread out the mass of the room. And it _roared_. It cried out in a shrieking, ear-breaking cry from the throat of two heads. Where there had been two children, once, stood a dragon. A _dragon_. A serpentine thing with a long, flowing body and four legs with six wings—black scales that shimmered with white and a red underbelly.

“That’s it,” Raguel said, her voice trembling with awe. “That’s what they’re supposed to be.”

The dragon roared again, somehow louder, and the entirety of the fighting force turned against it. Even Gabriel had drawn a sword he wasn’t holding moments ago. It was like this thing, this _beast_ , this monster, struck fear into the hearts of all of them. All of them.

Even Crowley and Aziraphale stared up at the creature like it was a monster. Like it was a horrid thing from stories that shouldn’t _exist_ , but it did. It existed in the most horrific form that Crowley could have ever taken, and underneath it all was the temperament of their mother. Its mother. It hadn’t moved. Not until the demons and the angels all rushed towards it. Then, and only then, did the thing begin to shriek and move.

When it roared, fire sparked from its heads and rained down over the floor of Heaven like it might melt the place and all that stood in its ways. There was panic that was rising, shouting, screaming—they were out of time. It was their own downfall that they’d brought in a world where Time meant nothing. Two days had grown down to two hours, two seconds, and their own doomsday was upon them now.

Beelzebub called out her orders—Gabriel called out his. There was no time to worry about fighting each other when the very _thing_ that spelled their doom was there, before them now. Breathing fire down over them in heavy bursts, breaths. Its tail swung back and forth, it stomped. It wouldn’t just discorporate an angel, a demon—it would _destroy_ them. And it was coming closer with every movement, like all the angels in demons in its path didn’t matter.

It was _carnage_. It was havoc. It was horror, that it breathed from its mouths. Two necks. Two heads. Two fires in two directions. The thing had no problem stalking forward, smashing the things that stood in its path. It seemed to have one goal in mind—nothing else mattered when it looked at the throne of Heaven. If it could knock that down, knock down the whole of Heaven. Destroy it. In the crumble, it would crash down with the entire tower and leave Hell in a flattened mess, just the same.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped out. He reached up to grab Crowley by the arm and drag him down to the ground. “Crowley—”

“It’s alright,” Crowley hushed, but his voice wavered all the same.

He could see the _eyes_ of the creature, and he knew it would be alright. That didn’t quell the fear. That didn’t make his heart stop pounding and the anxiety disappear. To a _beast_ , maybe Crowley and Aziraphale were just another—just two more demons who needed to be squashed. There was already rot growing up Aziraphale’s neck, peeking out from beneath the frayed ends of his ringlet curls. One of the monster’s heads had blue eyes and the other had gold.

“It hurts, Crowley,” Aziraphale pressed out. “Crowley, please.”

Crowley hesitated, but he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and held him close. “There’s nothing I can do,” Crowley whispered, and it hurt.

All around them, angels and demons were dying in droves unheard of. Heaven would _burn_ if that monster made it to the throne, and that was its goal. It would start with Heaven and end in Hell—put an end to all the needless _things_ that had been plaguing the world around it since the whole thing was born. Raguel was even helping clear its path. She wanted it all to fall as much as the monster did.

The more the carnage raged, the more angels and demons came. And they were all _useless_. They could barely fight each other, let alone a monster born to destroy them. They had the numbers, but the monster didn’t even seem to care. It just stomped and raged and blew down it’s reckoning in the way of fire.

Beelzebub began her slow and purposeful _march_ , then, with her weapon brandished. She was a demon. She was a prince of demons, and for it, she chose an elegant and deadly weapon. Much like herself. There was a rotted, shattered rapier in her hand, and she had her eyes on the monster. It had no mind for her; it’s mind and its eyes were on the throne, that the Archangels would defend to the death. Beelzebub could see that there was rage in the monster—this wasn’t duty, this was revenge.

That monster would seek to kill Sandalphon first, because he had almost been its destruction. After Sandalphon, it would face Uriel and Gabriel, who would die before they ever let the thing march forward. Michael would be its final opponent, and Michael was a master of the blade. War had always been Michael’s close cousin, even if no one was awake enough to see it. Michael would brandish armor like no one had ever seen with a sword as big as anything to take down this monster.

It was all very much a pretty little script of choreography. The monster wouldn’t wait for the actors to take the stage and cry out their lines. The monster would kill them all before it ever happened; while Beelzebub might have liked the idea of it, watching a monster take Heaven down angel by angel, the monster’s second goal was Hell. She did also prefer the idea of showing them just what a fight looked like. The rest of them could scramble and cry like idiots, but she would stand proud and face the monster like it was exactly what it was.

Two children playing god.

Beelzebub flew with the help of flies, and in her silence—in her _knowledge_ not to scream like some bumbling idiot, the dragon would never see her coming. She went for it on fast wings, on a silent glance, and spared only one look down to the angels and the demons who would die in their foolish idea of what a battle looked like.

Beelzebub’s sword was broken and jagged, but it was sharp. The first head fell fast. The second head fell faster. And the whole of the world shook when the body hit the ground, when Beelzebub hit the ground to wipe the edge of her sword on the cloth around her waist. The blood of the beast was purple, and she almost had thought enough to be disgusted.

“That’s how you put an end to things,” Beelzebub stated, a frown on her face.

Crowley suddenly wrenched off the ground at the sight of it, the feel of the radiating quakes. He _knew_ who that monster was. That was no monster—not to him. Even if he had feared it all the same that the angels and the demons had, that _monster_ was his children. Astraea. Gilgamesh. With heads cut off, the thing laid on the ground in a heap of seeping blood, and the whole of Heaven had gone silent.

There weren’t even words to speak, things to shout. There was only this growing _rage_ painted black with grief when the world lit back into flames; these weren’t holy flames—they were _Crowley_ _’s_ flames. He brandished them like weapons all their own, and the whole of an army turned on him, next. Aziraphale was still hunched over behind him, one broken wing still hanging limp from his back.

“You killed them!” Crowley shouted.

There came no response.

“Beelzebub!” Crowley cried out, again. As the flames grew higher, the entirety of an army took a step back. It was an ocean parting open to where Beelzebub stood with a smile on her face.

“They were children!” Crowley stalked forward. “Children!”

“You’re an idiot to believe that, Crowley. That thing was a monster, and I’ve just cleaned the place up a bit. No one else around here seemed capable to do it.”

Because everyone believed what Crowley believed. That the monster was two children curled around each other who had done what they needed to save themselves from falling to their death. Even Gabriel’s hold on his blade was weak and unsure; the look on his face was _almost_ horrified. Sandalphon looked proud of himself, as if he had somehow helped the thing along. Beelzebub looked _bored_. Diplomatic. Like she’d just filed paperwork. Oh, the paperwork this would cause.

Crowley would face the entirety of an army if it would bring his children back. He was a demon, but he was the demon Crowley. He’d fallen from the highest point in Heaven. He’d had more power than anyone had ever known, and it showed now in the flames, in the way that he raised them like swords and swords; the whole of an army would _fall_ to him.

The havoc started just as wild as it had been before, and Crowley was the monster this time. But the battle wouldn’t last very long, and it was for no one’s death and no one’s fall. It was for the sudden shaking of the ground, the way that the fire started to dance like it didn’t belong to Crowley, anymore. All at once, the ground started to bend beneath the fire, and the quakes began a knew.

They all watched in _horror_ , in awe; Crowley and Aziraphale watched in softened joy as the body began to move. The heads that had fallen melted away into water that singed the feet of those who stepped near it, and the body pushed itself back up on four feet with six wings spread out wide in a wingspan nearly greater than Heaven itself.

The demons started to panic.

The angels started to cry.

Even the smug look on Beelzebub’s face dropped.

This had never been written. This was in no plan. This was in no _war_ —it was just a fear. A fear of a being that had crafted the entire world under their feet and had, yet, never seen a thing like this in truth. Not outside of legend, and the legends could never live up to the creature that stood before them. A creature birthed of the hatred and revenge of a Fallen Seraph, from the undying hope of longevity in an angel who’d seen too much death.

From the rotten open wounds where the heads had fallen, the congealed blood and broken bone began to bubble, to grow. To grow. To _grow_. And suddenly, there were four heads with the same fury, the same _fire_ in its mouth that it had had before. Only now, it was angrier. And it truly had nothing to lose—because it was unkillable.

Before its havoc broke out again, there was just one of the heads that dipped down into the mass of beings. One head with one blue eye and one golden eye that nudged the mass of its snout into Crowley. Crowley, with hesitant hands, brushed the very tips of his fingers over the scales of this giant beast. The Hydra. It even seemed to speak in words that no one could hear, no one but Crowley and Aziraphale.

_Protect Mum_ , it said. Because it was the Hydra as much as it was Gilgamesh and Astraea, fused together into something more.

Crowley ran back to Aziraphale, and the flames took his place.

At the sudden, crying command of a voice that nearly they all recognized, the whole of an army would step away from the Hydra, and the battle would not continue. Another voice, a deeper voice, said the same. The whole of a legion stepped away, too. Even Gabriel and Beelzebub followed the sudden order, and the Hydra was left to stand alone in the center of the room with dwindling, dying flames around its feet.

At the head of the room there stood a figure all in brightness and golden hair, curled short behind Her ears. God stood at the foot of Her throne in a form they all could see, and it had been _centuries_ since a demon had ever laid eyes on the Almighty. It had been centuries since even an angel had seen Her in a form to be seen. At the end of the room, opposite her, was someone they all recognized just as well. He’d once been an angel. He’d once been God’s favorite. Now, He was Satan, and he walked with all the confidence of a man who knew He was just as strong as God.

“Hasn’t there been enough lives lost today?” God spoke first, and Her voice echoed.

There was an erupting _roar_ from the Hydra as if to say there would not be enough live lost until _all_ lives were lost. Surrender was the only way to prevent that, and it looked well and true like Heaven and Hell _were_ surrendering.

God even stepped down from her throne.

The Hydra melted away in response, in good faith. In its wake stood Gilgamesh and Astraea, who’s hands were still clasped together. Gilgamesh’s wings spread out wide like a display of size, power. The whole of an army and a legion had _seen_ what these children could do, and no one would ever attempt to raise a hand against them. Not now. Not where those two days hadn’t been enough time to prevent that.

“I think this is the first time in six-thousand years you and I have been in agreement,” Satan said. He’d approached, but he went no farther than the sad hobbling on the floor of Crowley and Aziraphale.

“If we weren’t in agreement, it would spell the end of everything we’ve worked so hard to build,” God replied. “I believe we’re both in agreement of what needs to be done to prevent that.”

Astraea scoffed. “What’s so great about this anyway? All you and your blind-bat followers have ever done is try to start wars. I think the best way to stop this is to stop _you_.”

“Do you truly think you can?” God asked, and it was only a certain eye that could catch the waver in her smile. “I created the world, after all.”

“You didn’t create us,” Gilgamesh affirmed. “We could do it. We _should_ do it.”

“But you shouldn’t,” Satan intervened. “We’d very much like if you didn’t, anyway. Perhaps we’ve been hasty about the final days.”

Nobody believed that.

“I’d like to offer you a bargain,” God said. “If you’d be so kind as to listen.”

There was only silence in her wake. Behind the twins, Crowley had pulled himself and Aziraphale up to their feet. The pain was beginning to subside, even if it was only for the moment. Aziraphale’s Fall was complete, but his second wing would only rot with the way it was. It would need _removed_. In the next second, though, God looked at them.

“The demon Crowley. The principality Aziraphale. You’ve both been quite a sore in my side since the Beginning,” God said. “However, seeing as how you possess something that could be strong enough to bring _everything_ to an end, I’m willing to discuss terms.”

“Why should I believe anything you have to tell us?” Crowley asked. He reached out his hand and gestured for Gilgamesh and Astraea to return to him, and they did. They dashed down the distance, still holding hands, and nearly collapsed into Crowley. It was only the wavering look of Aziraphale that stopped them.

“Because it is the survival of Heaven that I bargain for, and you should know that I would never do anything to jeopardize the lives of my angels.”

“Except start a war,” Astraea barked.

“We’ve been in correspondence, you see,” Satan explained. “As much as I loathe to admit it. We’ve come to agreement at the cost of something very, very small.”

“Keep your _children_ ,” God spoke the word with malice and contempt, “contained. Keep them away from Heaven and Hell, and we call the war off. Not only that, but we will truly, from herein, leave the four of you alone. I would have the both of you,” Crowley and Aziraphale, “removed from the ranks of Heaven and Hell. You should retain your powers, of course. I believe you’d need those to keep in check what you’ve created.”

God still spoke about them as if they were a monster and not children. It left the taste of bile in Crowley’s mouth, in Aziraphale’s, but they said nothing.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” God inquired.

“Why should we? You’ve never done anything _good_ ,” Crowley spat. “The only _good_ thing I’ve ever seen is something that _we_ created.” He gestured to Aziraphale. “You had no hand in this.”

God frowned at the implication that Gilgamesh and Astraea were _good_ , but Raguel’s refusal to kill what was not evil had to count for something. “An act of good faith, then,” she offered.

God stepped forward with her arms outstretched. In the following seconds, Aziraphale’s only remaining wing collapsed away from his body to join its mate, in a pile of ash, on the ground. There was no pain with it and no scars. New wings sprouted forth, then. Even if they were not pure and white like an angel’s, they were not black, burnt, and rotten like a demon’s. It was the look of a true neutral, and Aziraphale suddenly had his strength returned.

“I authorized no Fall,” God said. “I always believed in you, Aziraphale. Even if your loyalties cannot be won back, you never deserved that.”

Aziraphale bit into his lip to keep from speaking. It didn’t matter that it had happened, only that it had been undone.

“We leave you alone,” Satan said. “You leave us alone. Keep the brats contained, and you’ve got the run of the world. Just as powerful, just as immortal as you always were. Just none of us.”

“If you’re lying,” Astraea stepped forward. She stepped away far enough that she stood alone, in front of God. “We can destroy you. There’s nothing stopping us.”

“You don’t know how many times you can do that, though, do you?” God asked. “How many times can you merge together before your existence realizes that it, in this form, is wrong?”

Astraea frowned. Fire grew up from her fingertips for just the moment, before Gilgamesh approached behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders, and it calmed her for just a moment. Gilgamesh’s eyes burned with her fire, though, and they always would. He was half as aggressive but twice as nasty, and God could see it.

“Go home, Crowley, Aziraphale,” God said. “Go home, and you’ll never hear from us again.”

Crowley and Aziraphale clasped their hands together. When Gilgamesh and Astraea returned to them, Gilgamesh locked his hand with Aziraphale’s, and Astraea held onto Crowley’s. They would leave. Behind them, Raguel would even follow. If Heaven wasn’t for her, anymore, she would find a new life among the people on Earth that had all just been saved.

Somewhere, there was a certain Archangel and a certain Prince of Hell who looked at each other and wondered if the right course of action had just been made.

It all ended just as fast as it began.

Within the following day, the tower in the midst of the Atlantic disappeared. Countries put down their nuclear bombs. Armies put down their guns. People put down their animosity. It was as if the whole thing had never happened, though a mass hallucination couldn’t explain it away. Nobody would believe it, even if that’s what the headlines would read. The images and the photos and the videos would all disappear, those that had had the tower in them, but the memories would not be wiped. Not even God could wipe that away.

Adam and Anathema both had seen their way back from the hospital, in what was called a miraculous recovery for the wounds that they’d both received in an attack no one would quantify. Anathema had told the doctors exactly what happened, but there was no one who would believe her. The truth was always just slightly to the left of reality, and if that’s what the doctors wanted to see, Anathema wouldn’t blame them. Newton had come to pick her up, and she’d never held tighter.

When Adam returned to his flat, Pepper hovering nervously as if the miracle would entirely undo itself, he found that the work he’d missed had been miraculously completed for him. Pepper certainly hadn’t done it; they were in different fields. The work had all been done, though, and he remembered one very eager little boy who tried to change his grades. No grades had been changed, and there wasn’t a piece of work that fell outside the average grades Adam already got, but it was a thought that counted. A thought he appreciated.

Maybe, just maybe, Adam and Pepper would carve some time out of their days to spend some time down in the South Downs. It might make a nice vacation to actually get to know and meet the twins who had almost taken down Heaven and Hell. For all the humans on Earth, Adam and Pepper would believe every word of the story they’d shared. It lined up just right with what they’d experienced eleven years ago, during the first end of the world.

And for it all, one demon, one angel, and two nobody-knows-whats returned to a little cottage in the South Downs, where the plants were still thriving, and the first snow of January was beginning to fall. The house was warm inside, the fire already going and the telly already on. Everything was precisely where they’d left it, in the exact disarray that had always felt a bit like home. And it really did feel like home.

Once, a flat and a bookshop in London had been something. It wasn’t home, but it was a place to be, a place to stay. Aziraphale had loved his shop, but he loved his books more. The shop didn’t matter. The flat didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was all inside this little cottage

“I think, for the first time in centuries,” Crowley started, “I might be hungry.”

Aziraphale smiled and curled his hair behind his ear. “Should I prepare something, then?”

“Something fun!” Astraea offered, throwing her hands up in the air. She and Gilgamesh did not look as if they’d just nearly destroyed the world as it was.

“I’ll make something with pasta, then, yes.” Aziraphale thrummed his hands together. “Oh, perhaps we should make homemade pasta? Would you both like to help?”

And they certainly, certainly did.

When the pasta was made, entirely homemade with a fresh marinara sauce made from homegrown tomatoes, they all gathered out on the sofa. It was a night for celebration, not for eating at the dining room table. Crowley had even picked the entertainment of the night and explained it some vague idea before it begun. They would be watching a relatively incorrect version of an old myth, of something that might have happened if either Aziraphale or Crowley had paid attention, but it was a little too relevant.

They both did cry, halfway through the movie, when the cartoon presentation of a hydra, without wings, perished in the ensuing battle. But after that, they ended up falling asleep on the couch snuggled up between Aziraphale and Crowley. Eventually, once the movie was over, they were both taken straight to bed.

In the year that they were gone, Crowley and Aziraphale had had nothing to do, not really. They’d spent that time just trying to stay busy, trying to ignore the emptiness and the loneliness in the house. In that time, they’d revamped the nursery into Astraea’s room, and the second room—which had once been empty—became Gilgamesh’s new room. They each had everything that growing children would need: a bed, a desk, and a fully stocked bookshelf. The toys were still kept in the living area, and the majority of the books were still in the library, but Aziraphale had picked out each of their favorite novels to stock their new things.

The walls had been painted. Decals had been hung. Stuffed animals had been set out. The things that had been left at Adam’s flat and Anathema’s cottage miraculously appeared on their beds, and they would find them in the morning when they woke up.

Aziraphale and Crowley met together in the master bedroom, where the silence left them with nothing to do but to fall into each other and hold tight. Crowley had lost Aziraphale once, and he’d nearly lost him again. They’d nearly lost their _children_. But the four of them were safe, they were fine, and they were freer than they’d ever thought possible.

“I love you, Anthony,” Aziraphale whispered into his neck.

Crowley held him tighter. “I love you, too.”

“I thought we’d—I thought we’d lost them,” Aziraphale choked back a sob. He squeezed the tips of his fingernails into Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley held back with all the strength he could muster.

“We’re safe, angel. The four of us.”

“I’m not an angel—”

“You’ll _always_ be my angel,” Crowley said, pulling back with his hands gripped into Aziraphale’s bicep. “You’ll always be their mother. You’ll always be my angel. No matter what happens, you’re always going to be Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And we’ll always be together, won’t we?”

Crowley nodded. He pulled Aziraphale back into him and rested his chin on Aziraphale’s head.

“I’ve been thinking that I might really embrace this corporation for a while longer,” Aziraphale said, quietly. “Maybe I might even embrace it fully, do you understand?”

“Oh?” Crowley smiled. “Have I a girlfriend, now?”

Aziraphale couldn’t hide her smile into Crowley’s neck, and she nodded. If that’s what she wanted, then that’s what she would get. Crowley didn’t care one way or another what she looked like, what she called herself, as long as they were together. As long as Aziraphale, at the end of the day, was right here where she belonged, and Crowley was right there with her. They’d faced two ends of the worlds together, and if there was anything else on the horizon, that’s how they would face it, too.

The only thing left to face happened sometime between two and three in the morning, when they both awoke to the sound of their door opening. Astraea and Gilgamesh didn’t waste any time crawling up into the big bed to sit in the middle of it, each having clearly found their favorite toy laid out to sleep with them. Gilgamesh tugged at the little legs of his turtle as they waited for Aziraphale and Crowley to really, truly wake up. They’d all gone to bed hours ago, in theory, but the twins had woken up not long after that.

“We thought for a long time,” Astraea said.

“There was a lot of time where all we could think about was being what we were supposed to be,” Gilgamesh explained. “Not what we _are_. We were supposed to be the Hydra, but that’s just not us anymore.”

Thankfully, anyway. Aziraphale and Crowley wouldn’t voice that out loud. They just listened.

“We missed a lot.” Astraea squeezed her little cat tighter.

“We want to un-miss it.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem if we stayed like this for a bit, would it?” Astraea asked. She glanced between Crowley and Aziraphale.

There were bigger problems than having children for some undisclosed amount of time, after all. Aziraphale and Crowley reached out for the twins, and the four of them landed in a lump of person against the pillows. There was a scramble to see who could get more comfortable under the blankets first, but Astraea and Gilgamesh eventually found themselves snuggled up between their parents.

Goodnights were said. Kisses were given. The rest of eternity suddenly appeared before them, and it looked like a pair of rowdy children who could do whatever they liked, however they liked, as long as they made no move to restart Armageddon. With the little smiles on their faces as sleep took them, once again, it didn’t seem all that likely. If Armageddon was to find another way to start, Astraea and Gilgamesh would find themselves on a different side of that war.

This, a happy little home, was far more important than any end ever could be.


End file.
